


Into the Fire

by Bevyn_Black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Falling In Love, Life Debt, M/M, Mild D/s, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, references to 9/11, references to trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-10-12 09:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 87,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bevyn_Black/pseuds/Bevyn_Black
Summary: This is not how Harry expected the day to end: lying here on the floor at Grimmauld Place—covered in dust, soot and probably some dried blood—with Draco Malfoy, of all people, sprawled on top of him.





	1. Chapter 1

“Malfoy?” Harry choked out the word—he could still taste the smoke in his throat.

Nothing. He swore through another cough as his stomach clenched. Harry could feel Malfoy breathing, so he knew he was alive. But he wasn't sure he was conscious.

“Draco?” he tried. “Draco, come on.”

Malfoy finally coughed out a response. Not that Harry could understand him; his face was wedged into the crook of Harry’s shoulder.

“Draco, you're lying on top of me.”

“Brilliant of you to notice, Potter.” Draco’s drawling voice was raw, but clear enough now. He had finally roused himself enough to shift his head. “No wonder you're the new poster boy for the aurors.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I see your snark isn't injured.”

“Any more stunning revelations?”

“Your hair smells like petrol. And my ears are still ringing. And my back is killing me.”

“We both stink of petrol and smoke.” Malfoy paused for a racking cough. “My ears are ringing from that damned explosion too. And as for your back—well, you should have apparated us onto a bed instead of a sitting room floor.”

“Right. So sorry that this was the best I could manage while saving our lives.”

All he got in reply was a noncommittal grunt.

“Does that mean you’re not planning to move, Malfoy?”

“Honestly, Potter, I don’t think I can. Not without vomiting.”

Shit. That was . . . that was fair, actually. “Me either. How bad are you hurt?”

“Dunno. Reckon we’re both more singed than burnt. Don’t think anything’s broken. Could do without the nausea from the petrol fumes, though. You?”

Harry blanched. “Same. And I can hardly see—glasses are missing.”

“They’re on the floor over there.”

“Broken?”

“Probably.”

They lapsed into silence. For a few minutes, all Harry could hear was the ticking of the ghastly old clock that he kept meaning to give away. Or destroy. Or otherwise dispose of.

This is not how he expected the day to end: lying here on the floor at Grimmauld Place—covered in dust, soot and probably some dried blood—with Draco Malfoy, of all people, sprawled on top of him.

He hadn't even seen Draco since his trial, three years back. Until earlier today, he had stupidly believed that he was avoiding London and the British wizarding community. That he was traveling to places like Paris. And New York. And Buenos Aires.

All smoke and mirrors from the powers that be at the ministry. Malfoy must have seemed the ideal choice to infiltrate a group of neo-Death Eaters. He was a former Death Eater himself, after all. And Harry knew he was skilled in occlumency.

He was an animagus now too. Was that a requirement for deep cover?

Harry smirked as he thought back to the animal Draco had briefly transformed into as they escaped the burning house. He couldn't help it.

“So, Malfoy. About your animagus form . . . .”

“Fuck off, Potter.”

“No, really. It's impressive. What did you need to, uh, ferret out of that little hidey-hole?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Later. When I'm actually conscious—and this ferret thing has gotten old for you.”

“Oh, it will never get old,” Harry promised. But he stopped needling him. There'd be plenty more opportunities for that.

For now, Harry was just relieved that he'd gotten to Draco on time. He ought to have been pulled from the operation weeks ago. But the bastards at the ministry hadn't cared how much danger an ex-Death Eater was in, as long as he kept providing such valuable intelligence.

“Potter?”

“What?”

“How did you find out about me? Did Robards send you to my rescue?”

“No.” Robards was in charge of the operation. Harry's own boss.

Draco's voice was a little alarmed now. “Please don't tell me you went rogue.”

“Wasn't telling you anything, Malfoy. Just, you know, pointing out that you're still lying on top of me.”

Draco didn't answer that. Which probably meant he was concussed or something. Harry probably was too.

“Malfoy, don't fall asleep.”

He answered with a slurred murmur that might have been, “Not sleeping.”

Shit. Harry really should wake him. And this whole situation—if it wasn't awkward yet, it would be once they were both thinking clearly.

But there was something soothing about the way Malfoy’s breaths were changing from shallow and fluttery-fast to deep, slow, and steady. After a while, Harry's breaths started to match his, and the ringing in his ears began to fade.

The clock kept ticking. It must have disturbed Draco, because he finally piped up again. “I’m planning to thank you for rescuing me. Even if you were stupid enough to risk your career for it.”

“Planning to?”

“Trying to work out how many life debts I owe you first.”

Harry managed to move his shoulder enough to nudge him with it. “Let’s not keep score.”

Draco slid off of him—halfway, at least. “Have you met my family, Potter? The Malfoys are all about keeping score.”

“Fine. We’ll do the maths later.” Harry paused. “For now, we ought to heal ourselves.”

“We should,” Draco agreed.

“But that would require moving again, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.”

“Right.” Harry sighed. “So we’re just going to lie here, then?”

“Yeah. That’s my plan.”

It was surprisingly hard to think of a better one. Harry suspected that any serious movement would lead to the discovery of worse injuries than either of them were aware of, and he wasn't sure he could face that just yet. “All right.”

“Good.” Draco was still leaning alongside of him, so close that his breath was warm against Harry's neck. “That's sorted.”

“Except that the floor doesn’t make a good pillow.”

“Shame, that. Your shoulder, on the other hand, makes an excellent one.”

“I could shove you away, you know.”

“Doubt it. That would require you to move, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Harry managed a half-hearted attempt, though. Well, he managed to lift one arm enough to give Malfoy a pathetic little push. That didn’t work at all, so he just rested his other arm on Malfoy’s back.

Malfoy chuckled. “That’s an embrace, Potter, not a shove.”

Harry tried to shrug, but it hurt too much. “What can I say? I’m a romantic.”

“Yes, petrol, burns, explosions—you really know how to show a boy a good time.”

“Are you requesting a tamer second date?”

He yawned. “For what it's worth, I've never been to a muggle cinema.”

Harry snorted. “I suppose we can remedy that.”

Draco muttered something incoherent. He was probably back asleep.

Fuck. Sleeping was not an option when dealing with concussions. Harry knew that. He also knew that they should both be at St. Mungo’s. Why had he apparated them here? It was instinctive, he supposed. Grimmauld Place had started to feel safe again, especially after all the work he'd done on the wardings.

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't have another apparation in him tonight. He still couldn't even be arsed to try for some basic healing. So he let himself drift off, hoping for the best.

 

->*<-

 

When Harry opened his eyes again, Malfoy was still pressed alongside him. There was a pillow under Harry's head, though, and a blanket draped over them both.

And Kreacher was standing on the other side of him, looking down at the pair with a weirdly eager sort of approval.

“Master has brought Mr. Draco Malfoy home!” The house elf’s voice was tinged with awe. “The handsome pure-blood great-nephew of my late mistress.”

Harry wanted to retch at that. “No! I mean, yes. He's here and I brought him, but—this isn't what it looks like.”

“It isn't, Potter?” Malfoy stirred enough to grin up at him. “Were you just toying with me last night?”

“Bastard.” Harry elbowed him. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.” He pushed himself up a bit so that he could see Kreacher. “You served my great aunt? So this is the old Black place, is it?”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Will you be wanting a tour? Your esteemed mother—”

“I'll be happy to tour the house later,” he promised. “But for now, I need you to deliver a private message to Robards, the head of the aurors.”

“No, Kreacher. I’ll talk to Robards myself.”

Draco frowned at Harry. “I have sensitive information for him. Best send your elf straight away.”

“It's not sensitive now, Draco. Your cover is blown. You won't be any further use as an agent.”

“Potter, these neo-Death Eater cells don't all talk to each other. And none of them know that I'm an animagus—”

“I don't care!” Fuck, was he shouting? Where had he even found the energy?

Draco managed to sit up, more or less. He didn’t say anything, though. He just stared.

Harry pushed himself up too. And he tried to calm himself by silently counting to five. He made it to three. “Look, I know you. I know this would never be your first choice of a career—”

“Why not?” Draco's voice was sharp.

How was he supposed to answer that? It wasn't that Harry thought Draco was a coward, exactly. Not anymore. But he still wasn't the sort who would willingly hurl himself into danger. Especially without minions to protect him.

No, Malfoy didn't belong under cover. He ought to be brewing potions or repairing magical antiques or something. He was good at things like that: things that required lots of time and effort and patience.

But he had no business risking his life for a ministry that didn't even value it.

“Well, Potter?”

“You hated sixth year.” Harry hesitated and then gentled his voice. “That was—I mean, you were undercover then, in a way. And you hated it. Merlin, you were breaking down.”

Draco snorted. “Of course I hated it. You Know Who—no, I'm done with that. Voldemort was forcing my hand. He was threatening my parents. And me.”

“I know.” Harry swallowed. “Draco—look, just tell me the truth. Robards is the one threatening you this time. Not your life, but with something, right?”

“Ahem.”

Kreacher's little cough reminded both men of his presence. “Master should remember that he had promised to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley yesterday evening. Master missed the appointment. They have both just apparated near the house and will soon be outside the do—”

The doorbell sounded just then. Stupid chimes were far too cheerful for this charged atmosphere.

“Go on and let them in, Kreacher.” Harry threw off the blanket.

Draco scowled. “Don't blow my cover to Granger and Weasley.”

“Malfoy, wait—”

Too late. His white-blond hair transformed into white-blond fur. It happened so fast that Harry scarcely noticed as Draco scrambled onto his lap.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione was saying as she entered the room. Ron, meanwhile, was muttering something about the annoying clock.

And then they both stopped short at the sight of Harry sitting on the floor, holding a ferret, and looking like—well, like both him and the animal had survived an explosion.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

 

->*<-

 

It always took Draco a few seconds to adjust to his ferret senses—everything looked, smelled, and sounded different. His eyesight was shit, really, in this form. But he could hear and smell so much more.

Potter's scent was overwhelming just now. Sweat, blood, petrol, and a lingering whiff of sandalwood that was probably aftershave. And, underneath all that, a deeper, distinctive scent that was just, well, Potter.

Draco didn't mind that scent. In fact, he nuzzled into Potter's neck to get more of it. Why not? It would annoy Potter and make himself look like an innocuous pet at the same time.

But Potter took the nuzzling in his stride. He even gave Draco a gentle scratch behind the ears as he scooped him up and, with Weasley’s assistance, struggled to his feet. Next he retrieved his glasses, sat down on a chair and deposited Draco in his lap.

Weasley took a seat next to his wife on an ugly chesterfield. “You still have to tell us what happened to you,” he was saying. “And why the hell you didn't ask me to come.”

“Ron, quiet.” Granger paused to take out her wand. “Occulus reparo!”

Well, that took care of Potter's glasses.

“Episkey!” Hermione went through several more of those as she healed the scrapes, bruises, burns and possible strains both Draco and Potter had incurred. The mudblood know-it-all had her uses.

No, not mudblood. Draco had sworn off that slur. So make that muggle-born know-it-all.

Weasley, meanwhile, was pestering Potter again. “Come on, Harry, what did you do? And how much are we going to have to hide from Robards? And what possessed you to get a look-alike Malfoy ferret?”

“Ron!” Hermione let out an exasperated breath. “Let Harry sit for a moment.”

“All right, all right. He’s a cute little fellow, though. Wait, is it a him?”

“Yes,” Potter answered. “Definitely a him.”

Draco stretched himself up along Potter’s chest and nuzzled his neck again.

“He’s beautiful,” Granger said. “And look how attached he is to you. What's his name?”

“It’s, um . . . .”

Since when had Potter forgotten how to improvise? Draco urged him to think faster by nipping him.

“Ow!” Potter grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and lifted him up until his hind feet were scrabbling for purchase. “Behave, Draco.”

“Draco?” Weasley let out a startled and delighted laugh. “You actually named him after Malfoy? That's just cruel, mate.”

“It is, Harry.” Granger chimed in, though Draco could hear a reluctant chuckle in her voice. And somehow that annoyed him even more than her husband's outright mockery.

He kept scrabbling and twisting, but suddenly stilled as he saw the look Potter was giving him. Well, not saw, exactly. He couldn't grasp human expressions as well in this form. But a hundred little things told him that Potter had just reached a decision . . . and that it had nothing to do with that love bite.

Fuck. Potter was about to blow his cover.

“I didn’t name him after Malfoy. This is Malfoy.” Potter placed Draco back on his lap as he released his scruff.

“Harry . . . Harry, you can't be serious.” That was Granger. Draco wasn't facing her, but he reckoned she was wide-eyed and outraged now. “You didn't transfigure him!”

“What? No, of course not.” Harry shook his head as he absently stroked Draco’s back. “He's an animagus now. And he's been undercover for the Ministry for—I don't even know how long. And Robards left him to die.”

Draco’s brain seemed to freeze at that. So Robards considered him expendable, despite the promises he made. Promises about how the Ministry always looked after their agents. And Draco had been stupid enough to believe the man.

And now Draco was only alive, once again, thanks to Harry Potter. The chosen one was making a habit of saving him. Which meant that Draco was even further in his debt.

Fuck.

He shook himself a little. Then he pressed closer to Potter and refocused on the conversation.

“So Malfoy’s the one who provided all that intelligence?” Weasley was asking. “And when you found out, you went to rescue him alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Harry, why didn't you tell me? You should never have gone without backup.”

“Because I knew I’d probably be sacked for this! And I thought it'd be a simple extraction.” Potter kept stroking Draco as he talked. “They had figured out that Malfoy was a spy. He was magically restrained when I found him—but I swear, Ron, that was the only impressive magic they used. Their wards were shoddy, their . . . well, it doesn't matter now.”

“So you underestimated them.” Ron didn’t sound impressed.

“Yes. I didn't expect—”

“The place to be rigged for a muggle explosion?” Granger finished for him.

“Right,” Potter admitted. “And I didn't even smell the petrol at first. Not that the petrol—I mean, I think there was an actual bomb too. Look, Malfoy can tell us more about the whole operation.”

Weasley frowned. “Are you sure that's Malfoy? I wouldn't expect him to be so, um, affectionate with you.”

Potter grunted. “Maybe we've turned a corner in our relationship. Bet he's cross with me, though, for outing him as an agent.”

Draco attempted to prove that point by nipping his finger, but Potter was too fast.

“Stop that,” he warned. “Now come on, Draco. We want to talk with you properly.”

So Potter blithely expected him to obey orders. But Draco had no desire to be interrogated by the Golden Trio, especially since he answered—in theory, at least—only to Robards or to the Minister for Magic himself.

On the other hand, Saint Potter here was the one who had risked his neck to save him, not Robards or Shacklebolt. And Potter wielded considerable influence. No one had forgotten his status as saviour.

Potter had, somewhat inexplicably, helped the Malfoys after the war. There was no reason he should help them again, but . . . well, Potter had come charging to the rescue, hadn't he? Perhaps he'd offer even more assistance. Draco would be a fool not to find out.

With that in mind, he launched himself off Potter’s lap and smoothly transformed, landing gracefully on his feet. His clothing might be grimy and torn and Merlin only knew what his hair looked like, but he was still a Malfoy. He still knew how to carry himself.

He paused a moment, coming back to his human senses, and then turned to nod at Potter's guests. “Granger. Weasley.”

“So you were never in New York, Malfoy?” Granger asked, dispensing with any niceties or any comment on his appearance. “Or Paris or Buenos Aires?”

“I was in all three, actually. New York the longest. That's where I trained to become an animagus.”

Potter stood up. “Did Robards force you to become one?”

Draco shrugged. “It's a requirement for my line of work.”

“So that would be a yes.”

“Potter . . . .” He sighed as he turned to face him. “What exactly do you want from me?”

The holy-fucking-saviour hesitated before answering, and then seemed to suck in a lung's worth of air. “To start with, I want you to tell me what Robards is holding over you.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I pulled your arse out of the fire—literally!—twice now. I didn't do that so the ministry could just throw your life away.”

Salazar, Potter looked furious. But that fury wasn't directed at him. Draco stood there stupidly, as if he were rooted to the floor. He hadn't ever expected to see Saint Potter so righteously angry on his behalf.

“I can't—look, Potter, what do you expect me to do?”

“Exactly as I say! Tell me what Robards has on you. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. And then we'll tell Robards and the whole ministry to go and fuck themselves.”

Draco scoffed. “Are you that determined to end your career?”

Potter took a step toward him. “You're not going back undercover. Just . . . you're not.”

“And you think you’ve got a say in that?” Draco tried to put his habitual sneer into the words, but they came out oddly flat.

Potter seemed to bite back the first response that occurred to him in favour of another deep breath. But those green eyes of his flickered with determination.

“You've got a life debt to me, remember?” he said at last. “More than one, actually. And the Malfoys, apparently, care about their debts.”

“So we're doing the maths now?”

“If that's what it takes to keep you from being an idiot, then yes.”

Weasley chose that moment to stand up. “Okay, this is starting to sound like a private conversation—”

“No, stay, Weasley. Both of you.” Draco took a deep breath of his own. “I have some conditions for Potter, assuming he's serious. And I want witnesses.”


	2. Chapter 2

Harry had no idea what he was doing. He had only called in this life debt because it seemed to mean something to Malfoy, not because he understood what it actually involved. With his luck, it was some ancient pure-blood tradition with a zillion protocols.  
  
Didn't matter. Malfoy was willing to stop working undercover because of it, so Harry was willing to play along.  
  
He cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had engulfed the room. "You said you had conditions, Malfoy. Name them."  
  
"All right." Draco looked him up and down. "First off, this debt is just between you and me—and just for our lifetimes."  
  
Harry blinked. "Our lifetimes?"  
  
"Yes. You have my services till death do us part and all that. But I don't owe your heirs anything, and mine won't owe you or your heirs anything."  
  
Shit. What exactly was he including under services? And did Malfoy really consider this a debt to last until one of them was dead?  
  
Malfoy misinterpreted his shock. "What, Potter? You disagree?"  
  
"No." Harry forced himself to look like this was a normal conversation. He had no intention of letting Draco know how out of his depth he was. "No, that's all right. This stays between us."  
  
Draco looked satisfied. "Good. Now about my property. Anything I own personally is yours, if you want it. But family property that I stand to inherit or already own is different."  
  
"Are you talking about Malfoy Manor, Ferret?" Ron folded his arms across his chest. "You think Harry wants that place?"  
  
Malfoy shot him a venomous glance. "I don't care whether he wants it, Weasel. I care that he doesn't demand more than a life interest in it."  
  
Hermione, who had been suspiciously quiet until that moment, gasped out loud. "Harry, no! You two are talking about . . . ." She stopped and shook her head. "This life debt sounds as bad as what the wizarding world does to house elves."  
  
Ron spoke up again before Harry could answer. "It isn't, though. No one's forcing Malfoy."  
  
"That's not the point, Ron!" She was on her feet now too—they were all standing in the centre of the room—looking as if she wanted to assign detention to the lot of them.  
  
"With due respect, Granger, I think it is the point." Draco quirked his eyebrows at her. "Potter and I are just negotiating an agreement between two consenting adults. There's nothing legally or magically binding about it."  
  
Harry grunted. "Me holding Malfoy Manor as a life estate sounds legally binding—wait. Is that what this about? Is the ministry threatening to seize your family's property?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "That's part of it, yes."  
  
"They can't." Hermione all but stamped her foot. "Demands for reparations from Death Eater families have failed again and again—"  
  
"Oh, the ministry's too smart to seize it under the pretense of reparations." Draco curled his lip. "They'll seize it because of our violations of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy."  
  
"What?" Harry's jaw dropped. "Did your father—what did he do to muggles?"  
  
"It's not what you think. He wasn't destroying their bridges or using them for target practice. It's all about muggle finances, actually."  
  
Now Harry was even more confused. "Finances?"  
  
"Yes. I'll explain later."  
  
"Fine. Then tell me what else this is about."  
  
"Look, Potter—"  
  
"Tell me, Malfoy. Now."  
  
"All right!" His face reddened, but he kept talking. "They said they'd throw my father back into Azkaban unless I agreed to the undercover work."  
  
Of course. Harry knew his testimony had saved Draco and his mother from prison, but he'd always wondered how Lucius had kept his freedom after the war. Ratting out other Death Eaters had helped,  but it hadn't seemed enough.  
  
"That's not right." Hermione whispered the words, but they carried throughout the room.  
  
Harry looked straight at Draco. "Tell me exactly what you want to accomplish here."  
  
Draco didn't pretend to misunderstand him. "I want you to protect my family and our property. I don't want my father to die at Azkaban. I want him and my mother to grow old together at Malfoy Manor, without fear that someone will snatch the place away."  
  
It was hard to think of someone who deserved to rot in Azkaban more than Lucius Malfoy. Harry had never forgotten how willing Lucius had been to see murder done in the Hall of Prophecy, and that was just the start of his wrongs. Somehow, though, Harry kept his mouth shut.  
  
Draco was staring at him now, his grey eyes half-pleading and half-challenging. "You ensure all that, Potter, and I'll do whatever you say."  
  
Hermione frowned at Draco. "Who owns Malfoy Manor now?"  
  
"My father. But it's entailed to me."  
  
"And the ministry can break that entail?"  
  
Draco gave her a sour smile. "With what they have on my family and the history of that property? Yes."  
  
Her forehead crinkled. "So you think you can legally finagle a way to transfer the property to Harry before the Ministry can seize it."  
  
"Yes," he admitted. "No one at the Ministry would dare interfere—not if Potter ends up with it. More importantly, I trust our saviour here to hold it in trust for my heirs. I know he won't make a grab for it himself."  
  
Hermione sat down on the arm of the couch. "That's actually quite clever."  
  
"I thought so."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. "Too bad you didn't think of it before you agreed to go undercover. You could have saved us an explosion."  
  
"Sorry, Potter. If I'd known pulling my arse out of fires was such a high priority for you, I would have done."  
  
Harry smiled at that, but only for a second. "I'm not sure I can keep your father out of Azkaban. I can expose the deal Robards forced you into. Or threaten to—"  
  
"The ferret could do that much himself," Ron pointed out.  
  
"But no one would care, would they?" Hermione asked. "I mean, no one will listen to Draco or lift a finger for his father."  
  
"Ten points for Gryffindor, Granger." Draco's eyes were still intent on Harry. "See, Potter? I need you to do this. The ministry will listen to you."  
  
Ron scoffed. "You've got an awful lot of conditions, Malfoy. In fact, you make out a lot better than Harry in this deal—"  
  
"It's fine, Ron." Harry held out his hand to Draco. "I accept. All of it, I mean. The, um, payment of the life debt, the conditions—everything."  
  
Draco opened his mouth to speak, but abruptly closed it again. In the end, he simply nodded as he took Harry's hand and shook it.  
  
Harry didn't let go right away. Instead, he tightened his grip. "I expect you to hold up your end too. This agreement isn't just going to be for show on your part."  
  
"Oh, don't worry, Potter." Draco tightened his grip too, even as he put the Malfoy sneer back into his voice. "I mean to dedicate my life to obeying your every whim."  
  
"Good. You can start by telling us just what you ferreted out of that hidey-hole before we escaped the explosion."  
  
Draco nodded again as Harry released him. "Fine. You should all see it, actually. You might appreciate its value. I just need a muggle laptop."

 

->*<-

 

"I still think you've both lost your minds." Granger slammed her coffee mug down on the long dining room table with such force that Draco was amazed the oak didn't crack.  
  
"Dunno," Weasley said. "Probably better that the ferret's under Harry's thumb, don't you think?"  
  
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but Potter spoke up first.  
  
"Don't, Malfoy," he warned. "And Ron, stop it."  
  
Too bad. Draco had a few choice words for Weasley, but they would keep. For now.  
  
"Here," he said instead. He turned the laptop around, so that it was facing the Golden Trio. "All the information on that flashdrive. Accounts, passwords—every shred of financial evidence I collected on that lot."

“Just financial evidence?” Weasley looked puzzled.

Draco nodded. “That was my most recent brief.”

Potter stared at the screen. "But these are all muggle bank accounts and investments, aren't they?"  
  
"Of course!" Granger sounded as if she wanted to smack herself. "They're laundering their funds through muggle accounts, using muggle technology—"  
  
"All to circumvent detection, yeah?" Ron shook his head. "Clever, but how far can we follow the money?"  
  
"Pretty far." Draco passed the laptop to Granger. "You ought to make a copy of all this. It's not just that we can track these wanna-be Death Eaters. I think this information tells us exactly what they plan to do."  
  
She shot him a curious, demanding look. "Which is?"  
  
But Draco shook his head. "I want to see if you reach the same conclusion I did. I doubt the twats at the ministry will. Except maybe Robards and Shacklebolt—we'll see."  
  
Potter and Weasley exchanged glances, but neither demanded their own copy. Both seemed content for Granger to give these accounts the careful and meticulous reading they required. That settled one long-standing question for Draco: Granger had clearly kept the saviour and his sidekick from failing half their classes at Hogwarts. He wondered how many papers she had written for them.  
  
"I'm not technically authorised to review this." Granger's eyes devoured the screen regardless.  
  
That wasn't lost on Weasley, who was grinning. "But you're making the copy anyway."  
  
She gave her husband a guilty shrug and, at length, handed the flash drive back to Draco.  
  
"Time to hand that in to Robards, don't you think?" Weasley asked.  
  
Draco inclined his head toward Potter. "That's up to my new lord and master."  
  
Potter didn't even blink at that epithet, or the sarcastic tone. "We do need to talk with him. Come on, Malfoy. The wards won't let you apparate in or out of here alone, but I can take us."  
  
Was he joking? "Have you looked at me? Or in a mirror? We each need a shower and change of clothes. And though I doubt you have anything I would deign to wear—"  
  
"Oh, we're not changing." Potter’s face was fierce and determined now. "I want Robards to see just how close he came to getting us both blown up."

 

->*<-

 

Potter really was doing his utmost to get himself sacked. He and Robards had been at it for more than half an hour now. Draco had only witnessed the first ten minutes of their shouting match, but he needed no great skill in divination to see just where it was headed.  
  
Robards had wanted privacy for most of the argument, so he consigned Draco to the small waiting room outside his office. (Yes, the bastard was important enough to warrant a waiting room, as if his office were a surgery. But at least it was shielded, somewhat, from the chaotic cubicles of lower ranking aurors.)  
  
No matter. Draco had something more important to think about than Potter's employment—namely how to tell his parents that he had indentured himself to the scarhead. And, worse, that they would have to find a way to legally transfer Malfoy Manor to him. Draco bit his lip, wondering exactly how to work around the entails that bound the property without technically breaking them.  
  
"Is this seat taken, Malfoy?"  
  
Draco's eyes shot up. He'd been so deep in thought that he hadn't noticed Granger creeping up on him. Nonetheless, he collected himself enough to stand up as he nodded toward the chair next to him.  
  
She looked a little astonished at this show of politeness, but took the seat regardless. "How's it going in there?"  
  
Draco sat down again, adjusting the legs of his trousers as he did so. "Saint Potter is pouring out his righteous anger on my behalf. When I left, he was threatening to expose the way Robards blackmailed me into becoming an agent."  
  
"And then left you to die?"  
  
"That too. Robards wants to fire him for going rogue, but can you imagine how that would play out in the Daily Prophet?"  
  
"That would be horrific press for the entire ministry. They can't sack him for saving an agent."  
  
"Right. Even a Malfoy's life is worth something, especially if our holy saviour deems it so."  
  
She stared at him. "Could you try for a bit more snark and self-loathing in that sentence?"  
  
That surprised a laugh out of Draco. "Probably. But I'll refrain."  
  
Granger sighed. "Harry would have helped you even if you hadn't agreed to honour this stupid life debt, you know."  
  
Salazar, of course she was still on about that. "Don't waste your pity on me, Granger."  
  
"It's not pity—"  
  
"Yes it is. And don't look at me as if I'm some down-trodden house elf in need of your activism. As your husband pointed out, I make out quite well from this deal."  
  
"No, your parents make out quite well. Your father will stay at liberty and they'll both keep their estate." She paused to shake her head. "But do you even care about Malfoy Manor? For yourself, I mean. Not for your parents or heirs."  
  
He shrugged. "That's a complicated question."  
  
She placed a hand on his arm. Draco instinctively recoiled to spare her the grime and soot.  
  
Granger turned three different shades of scarlet as she pulled her hand back. "So you still hate to be touched by a mudblood?"  
  
"What? No, it's not that!" Fuck. He managed to offend people even when he didn't mean to. Well, actions would speak louder than words in this case, so he reached for her hand.  
  
Granger narrowed her eyes at him, but she didn't snatch it away. Draco raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. In fact, he overdid the courtliness enough to break through her anger and bring an exasperated smile to her face.  
  
"I'm still filthy from the explosion, Granger, that's all." He lowered her hand, but didn't release it. "And I don't believe that crap about muggle-borns anymore."  
  
She didn't say anything. Was she waiting for him to say something more? Would Potter expect him to apologise for every cruel comment he'd ever made about her? They'd be here forever.  
  
She finally opened her mouth to reply, but Weasley chose that moment to enter the waiting room. His eyes widened a bit at the scene in front of him, but he took it better than Draco would have anticipated.  
  
"Any particular reason you're holding the ferret's hand, 'Mione?"  
  
"Don't worry, Weasel." Draco made a show of releasing her. "I'm safely bent."  
  
"Are you?" He didn't look surprised as he helped himself to a seat. "The Prophet tried to out you once—claimed you'd been seen in a muggle gay club in New York—but, well, it's the Prophet."  
  
"Hardly a reliable source," Draco agreed, "but in this case the report was accurate."  
  
"You don't have designs on Harry, do you? Because I'm telling you—"  
  
"Ron!" Granger sounded outraged by whatever was on the tip of her husband's tongue.  
  
But Draco just snorted. "No designs, Weasley, but I'll admit it: I wouldn't kick the saviour of the wizarding world out of bed."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
Shit. That was Potter's voice. It sounded tired and a little hoarse, but also tinged with amusement. Draco turned in time to see him lean against the frame of the now-open office door.  
  
"Don't get your hopes up, Potter." He tried for a mock warning tone. "Not saying you're my type."  
  
"Maybe we should reserve judgment till after our second date. Muggle cinema you said, yeah?"  
  
Weasley scoffed. "Maybe you should stop flirting with Malfoy and tell us what's going on."  
  
Potter closed the door behind him; Draco caught only a glimpse of Robards at his desk.  
  
"It went, ah, mostly well." Potter paused to run his fingers through that impossible hair of his, mussing it up even more than normal. "Let's find some place to talk."

 

->*<-

 

The best place to talk turned out to be Hermione's cramped office at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Harry collapsed into one of the two chairs in front of her desk. Then he reached for Malfoy's arm in order to tug him into the other one.  
  
Malfoy gave him a look that was hard to interpret. He didn't seem to mind following Harry's lead, exactly, but maybe he was struggling with the novelty of it. Or maybe he was just amazed by Hermione's plethora of SPEW posters, each advocating for equal rights and fair pay for house elves. Knowing about Hermione's activism and seeing the posters in all their manic glory were two separate things.  
  
Whatever. Malfoy took the chair without complaint, pulling the legs of his trousers up a bit as he sat down. Because of course he was sitting properly, even if he was still grimey from the explosion.  
  
Hermione sat down behind her desk as Ron took a seat on the edge of it. "Harry," he said, "have you still got a job?"  
  
"Yes. Turns out he can't sack me for rescuing an agent. Six months of desk duty, though."  
  
Ron grunted. "Bet you can fight that too."  
  
"Perhaps, but there's no point. Not when I got everything else I wanted." He paused to straighten up and turn toward Malfoy. "You're no longer an agent. Robards will debrief you officially tomorrow and thank you for your service."

“And the flash drive?” Ron asked.

“We already gave it to him.”

Draco leaned over toward Harry. “What about my father? And Malfoy Manor?"

"He's promised to keep his hands off both—sort of."  
  
"Sort of?" Hermione shot Harry a look from across her desk.  
  
Harry swallowed and turned back to Draco. "Look, your father has to keep himself absolutely clean from here on out. I can't do anything if he gives Robards an excuse to charge him with some new infraction."  
  
"Understood. And that won't be a problem."  
  
Harry didn't have nearly that much faith in Lucius Malfoy, but, once again, he kept his mouth closed.  
  
"What about Malfoy Manor?" Ron asked.  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows at him.  
  
"What?" Ron turned a little red. "I don't care whether your family keeps the place or not, Malfoy, but I'm curious."  
  
Harry sighed. "So I understand where muggle finances come into the estate now. Half the Malfoy fortune, at least, is in pound sterling—not the vaults of Gringotts."  
  
Hermione folded her arms across her chest. "Yet the Malfoys despise muggles."  
  
Draco looked amused. "Even my father taught me that muggles have their uses, Granger. And the sense to get their currency off the gold standard."  
  
"Wait," Ron said. "Why is it a problem to own a fortune in muggle coin?"  
  
"Because of the way that fortune was acquired," Draco answered. "The Malfoys have spent centuries confunding and otherwise charming muggles out of their money and property. And, trust me, we're not the only pure-bloods in on that game."  
  
Hermione bit her lip. "So your family deserves to lose the manor."  
  
Draco shrugged. "It won't go back to the muggles, Granger. Someone at the ministry will end up lining their pockets. And, anyway, protecting the place for my family is part of my bargain with Potter."  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah. This isn't fair, Hermione, but he's right. Besides, my home at Grimmauld Place was probably acquired the same way. Maybe the Potter fortune too, back in the day."  
  
"I reckon that's true on both counts," Draco said.  
  
Hermione gave him a sharp look. "Have you been part of this?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "No. I mean, I've benefited, obviously—"  
  
"How?"  
  
For a moment, Harry didn't think Draco would answer. He'd probably had his fill of questions for the day. And this level of cooperation, at least with Harry and his lot, was a new experience for him.  
  
But Draco surprised him. "My personal fortune started with gifts from various Malfoys and Blacks," he explained. "But I've enhanced it with my own legitimate investments—not by cheating muggles."  
  
"Legitimate investments?" Ron looked both shocked and put out. "Merlin, Malfoy, when have you had time? You're only twenty, same as us."  
  
"You can usually open a muggle account with a broker at eighteen, Weasley."  
  
"Don't you need muggle credentials?"  
  
"Of course, but I have those."  
  
Hermione looked interested. "Are you on the electoral register, then?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Harry grinned at him—he couldn't help it. "Bet you vote Tory."  
  
"That goes without saying in my family."  
  
Ron was turning red. "Your whole family has muggle credentials and they vote and invest? After every bloody thing they said about muggles and muggle-borns?"  
  
Fuck, Draco was enjoying Ron's outrage. Harry could tell by the growing sneer on his face. So Harry kicked his foot, silently warning him not to bait Ron.  
  
Draco seemed to understand the warning—and even to heed it. "Certain pure-blood families are good at compartmentalising, Weasley," he said, more-or-less diplomatically. "They can despise muggles and still recognise the value of using their currency."  
  
Ron rolled his eyes as he turned toward Hermione. "When you're the Minister for Magic, love, I hope you tax all these posh families out of their inherited wealth and redistribute the money to poor wizards and muggles."  
  
She grinned. "Something tells me Draco wouldn't approve."  
  
"No, I wouldn't. Fewer taxes on the wealthy, please. We're already disproportionately—"  
  
"Merlin, no more politics." Harry elbowed Draco. "And remember, that personal fortune of yours belongs to me now. I can make sure you use it for good causes."  
  
"Salazar help me." But Draco was more smiling than sneering now. "That only applies if you've kept up your part of the deal."  
  
"Oh, this will play out just as you thought. No one at the ministry will touch Malfoy Manor, as long as I hold it." He hesitated, half-relishing and half-dreading the next step.  
  
Malfoy read him perfectly—and suddenly his sneer was back in full force. "Ready for some quality time with my parents, Potter?"


	3. Chapter 3

Harry folded his hands in his lap after he finished the first course—ahead of everyone else, which probably wasn’t a good thing. But he wasn’t about to be caught with his elbows on the dining room table. Not at Malfoy Manor.

“I understand that you’ve successfully avoided a ministry appointment,” Lucius was saying to him. “Could it be you have no ambitions in that quarter?”

“None.” Harry raised his eyebrows at the man. “But, speaking of politics, I understand you take an active interest in the muggle parliament. How do you like Blair’s chances?”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up from across the table. Harry felt a twinge of guilt; he doubted Draco wanted his father to know just how much he had revealed about his family. But there was no way Harry could resist goading Lucius. Not after everything the man had done.

But Lucius refused to be goaded. After one penetrating glance at his son, he turned back to Harry with a thoughtful expression. “Oh, Blair and Labour will triumph this June, as expected. Blair is popular, Hague hasn’t healed the divisions amongst the Tories, and no one wants to upset the apple cart just now. I imagine few people will even bother to vote.”

“But you do.” Harry refused to back down. “Vote in muggle elections, that is.”

“Of course we do,” Narcissa said in that posh, deceptively polite voice of hers. “As much as we would enjoy living in a wizarding bubble, Harry—is that short for something, by the way? Harold, perhaps, or Henry?”

“No, Mrs. Malfoy. I’m just Harry.” Shit, why was he being so formal? She felt free enough to call him by his given name. And he didn’t owe the Malfoys, of all people, respect.

“Harry, then,” she continued smoothly. “That bubble is not our reality. Muggle politics affect all of us.”

“Shame that Labour seems so unassailable right now.” Draco put down his fork with half the food left on his plate—he didn’t seem to have much appetite tonight.

“I imagine that will change soon enough.” Lucius still looked thoughtful. “I don’t believe Blair is quite the man Labour thinks he is—and sooner or later circumstances will out him.”

“As what?” Narcissa looked amused as she took a sip from her wine glass. “A closet conservative?”

“Possibly, but I also suspect he’s far more ruthless than he lets on. Eventually, even muggles will notice.” Lucius paused. “Whether the Tories or the Lib Dems will have the wherewithal to take advantage of that remains to be seen.”

Harry took a gulp of his own wine before he remembered that he was supposed to be sipping it. He had no particular opinion on Blair or any other politician, muggle or otherwise, but Lucius was sounding as canny as ever. Did the man still have influence in the ministry, even after his fall from grace?

The conversation languished a bit. Lucius and Narcissa had insisted on putting off the real purpose of this meeting until after dinner. Harry wasn’t even sure how much they knew. Draco had sent them an owl to arrange this gathering, but he probably hadn’t told them why he wanted to bring Harry.

At least they weren’t in the formal dining room. Harry had a good idea of the crimes Voldemort had committed in there, including the use of a Hogwarts professor as a meal for Nagini. Merlin, why did the Malfoys want to keep this place? Harry would be just as happy to see it demolished.

He wondered, for a moment, if the family had closed the dining room off. Perhaps they were trying to shut out the memories of living under the Dark Lord. Once Lucius dropped from his favour, they’d been living in terror.

On second thought, no. Lucius Malfoy was too cold to be that sensitive.

Fortunately, they were in a smaller, cozier dining room tonight—what did you call it? The second dining room? The family dining room? He would have to ask Draco later.

“We seem to have exhausted the verboten topic of politics,” Narcissa said at last. “Shall we move onto religion? Draco, I understand the Baumgartens’ youngest will be celebrating his bar mitzvah this coming autumn?”

“Yes, Mother. Shira already invited me.” He nodded at Harry. “The Baumgartens are an old American wizarding family.”

“Draco shared a flat with their eldest daughter whilst he was in New York,” Narcissa explained.

“The flat is in Hoboken, actually.”

She ignored the correction. “I do hope the ceremony will be in New York? Wasn’t there some talk of holding it in Tel Aviv?”

Draco actually smiled, something he hadn’t done all evening. “It’s in New York—well, New Jersey, actually. But, trust me, I don’t have to go all the way to Tel Aviv to find some unrest. I can get myself blown up anywhere.”

Harry bit back a grin. They’d both almost gotten themselves blown up right in Surrey. How would the Malfoys react to that? Had they even known about their son’s undercover work?

“How is Shira?” Lucius asked. “You’ve been in touch, obviously, since your return?”

“Yes. She’s fine. Still studying to become the American equivalent of a Potions Master.”

“You really ought to visit her again before autumn, dear.” Narcissa set her own fork aside. “Or invite her to come here for a holiday.”

Draco sighed. “Sorry for all this talk about someone you don’t know, Potter, but my parents are doing their utmost to arrange a marriage for me.” He stared down at his plate. “At the moment, Shira is their prime candidate.”

Harry coughed a little to hide the fact that his head was spinning. An arranged marriage? To an American witch? Somehow he pictured the Malfoys insisting on an English pure-blood. A nominally Anglican one.

And Draco was gay, wasn’t he? At least judging by his conversation with Ron. And the Prophet had outed him ages ago.

Harry had felt an odd but poignant sympathy for his old nemesis when that article appeared. He hadn't known whether it was true or not—though his gut told him it was—but either way, it was no one's business but Draco’s.

Was he out to his parents? Harry couldn’t ask right now, so he tried to say something diplomatic instead.

“Ah, the bar mitzvah should be interesting, I guess,” he managed. “I’ve never been to one.”

“I can probably bring you as a plus one if you fancy a trip to the states,” Draco offered. “You have to survive a long synagogue service, but at least there’s a party afterward.”

Harry smiled. “Do you suppose Anthony Goldstein had one? He didn’t invite any Gryffindors if he did.”

“The Ravenclaw half-blood?” Draco shrugged. “Dunno. I think American wizards in general do more of the religious thing than we do. Of course, he has cousins in America. I met a couple of them.”

Narcissa nodded. “There’s been more than one marriage between the Baumgartens and the American branch of the Goldstein family.” She paused to give her son a gentle look. Then, to Harry’s surprise, she spared one for him too. “Harry, you might not be aware of this, but pure-blood marriages are often based on a solid friendship rather than a romance.”

“The purpose is to produce pure-blood heirs,” Draco added, his voice dry.

“Yes.” Narcissa hesitated. “And if the friendship is strong enough—as I hope it might be between Draco and Shira—either spouse might, by mutual agreement, seek romantic fulfillment elsewhere.”

Harry stared at her, not sure why she was telling him this.

Draco seemed to know, though. “Mother, you—” He broke off and put his head in his hands, not even caring that his elbows were now on the table. “Potter is not my boyfriend! That’s not why I brought him here tonight.”

Oh. Harry’s brain finally caught up.

Lucius snorted. “You can hardly blame us for leaping to that conclusion, Draco. You’ve apparently regaled Mr. Potter with stories of our muggle interests, you insisted on this dinner, you invited him to be your plus one at an event in New York—”

“I didn’t mean as my romantic plus one! I meant—” he broke off again. “I don’t know what I meant.”

“Well, maybe it will be romantic.” Harry was grinning outright now; he couldn’t help it. “You promised me that date at the cinema, remember?”

Draco shot him a withering glance.

“Sorry.” But Harry wasn’t really repentant. It was too much fun to see the Malfoys so far on the wrong track.

But that wasn’t fair, he told himself. The one redeeming feature of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy was the fact that they loved their son. Loved him enough, it seemed, to show their limited support for him to find, uh, ‘romantic fulfillment’ with a man they despised.

“We aren’t boyfriends,” Harry said at last. “And if we were, I wouldn’t want to be his bit on the side while he got entangled in an arranged marriage.”

Draco raised his head to look up at him. There was a half-smile playing on his lips. “My romantic liaison, not my bit on the side. That’s better, surely?”

“It’s still not enough.”

“That’s because you, Potter, have no proper pure-blood feelings.” There was no malice in Draco’s words; they sounded almost fond. “Or even proper half-blood feelings.”

“None,” Harry agreed. “But I suppose I could just forbid you to enter an arranged marriage to begin with—”

“No. You don’t get to interfere with any future heirs of mine.”

“One might ask,” Lucius said dryly, “why Mr. Potter should feel he has the right to interfere with any part of your life.”

Draco straightened up in his chair until his posture was once again properly rigid. “Sorry, Father. I would have explained earlier, but you felt it best to wait before I made my announcement.”

Narcissa and Lucius exchanged glances. Harry kept his mouth shut.

“Potter here has placed us all under his protection,” Draco explained. “He’ll make sure you keep your liberty, Father. And he’ll make sure the Ministry doesn’t seize our home.”

Lucius tightened his grip on his wine glass. “And in exchange?”

Draco shrugged, cool and nonchalant. “I pay off my life debt to him. So, you see, he does have the right to interfere in my life.”

 

->*<-

 

A prolonged silence fell over the table. Draco was afraid to break it. He knew just how his father felt about Potter—knew how much he still despised him.

That wasn’t because Potter had beaten the Dark Lord. No, his father had been terrified of Voldemort by the end and certain that he would never regain that monster’s favour. He probably secretly wished, and maybe even prayed, for his defeat.

But his father knew how much he owed Potter, and he couldn’t tolerate being in the saviour’s debt.

A small, detestable part of Draco—the part of him that still felt like an insecure, jealous fifth year—understood that and even sympathised. But for the most part he was simply grateful to Harry.

Potter had testified for Draco and Draco’s mother, keeping them both out of Azkaban. All of Draco’s pleading couldn’t convince him to testify on behalf of his father too . . . but Potter had promised he wouldn’t testify against him either. And he wouldn’t speak out against any deal the man cut with the ministry.

Potter had kept those promises, so all three Malfoys owed their liberty to him. Yet Draco was probably about to watch his father claim that he'd sooner die in Azkaban than live under Potter's protection.

Fortunately his mother spoke up first. "We are very grateful to you, Harry. Draco told us about what happened in the, ah, Room of Requirement, I believe it's called? How you and your friends risked your lives to save him from the fiendfyre—”

"That was the first time he pulled me out of a fire, Mother," Draco cut in. He didn't like to interrupt her, but this couldn't wait. "Yesterday night was the second."

Potter jumped in. "I don't think Draco's told you what crucial work he's been doing on behalf of the ministry and the aurors—"

"In a moment, Potter." Draco glanced at each of his parents in turn. His mother was turning white. His father was in danger of breaking the wine glass in his hand by the sheer tightness of his grip.

They knew, of course, that Draco had done some services for Robards to help keep his father out of prison. But Draco had led them to believe that he was quietly assisting the aurors with their financial investigations. That he was almost the equivalent of a forensic accountant, and in no greater danger than an average accountant.

Draco sighed. "Potter has saved my life four times in total. Once from that fiendfyre, once in the Battle of Hogwarts afterward, once—"

"Wait, you've actually done the maths?" Potter looked astonished.

"Yes!" Draco turned back to his mother. "Once by keeping me out of Azkaban; I'd have killed myself in there—"

Potter made a strangled noise.

"—and the final time was last night," Draco finished, ignoring him. "He's made quite the habit of rescuing me."

"I owed you and your family two of those," Potter said. "You didn't identify me to . . . to those other Death Eaters when you had the chance."

Kind of him not to point out that his father and aunt were amongst those Death Eaters.

"And your mother told Voldemort I was dead when I wasn't—"

"Yes, yes. That leaves you two up."

"But I owed you one more for that stupid spell I cast during our, uh, duel in sixth year." Potter was bright red now. "I swear, I didn't know what it would do. I never meant—"

"I was trying to use a torture curse on you, so I'm not counting that."

"It's not the same—"

"Leave it be, Potter. You're two up. Three, if you count the fact that your testimony kept my mother out of Azkaban too."

His mother finally recovered. "There seems to be a great deal you haven't told us, Draco."

"Yes." His father's voice was tight. "Kindly explain what happened last night."

"Draco was working undercover for Robards," Potter said. "He must have been at it for some time, because he was a proper agent—even became an animagus while he was in New York."

He paused, cocking his head at Draco.

Draco shrugged in return.

Potter took that as permission to continue. "I didn't know about this. All I knew, as an auror, was that someone had infiltrated a neo-Death Eater cell. And they'd given us good information. We were able to make several arrests."

Draco stole a glance at his father, but he was still glowering at the head of the table. If he was impressed, he wasn't showing it.

But that was to be expected. When had Draco ever managed to impress his father?

"The information dried up," Potter went on. "I assumed that Robards had pulled the agent out. Which was fine—it's what he should have done. But I overheard . . . well, the details don't matter. I found out our agent was still there. I couldn't imagine how he had kept his cover. And then, after, um—"

"After what, Potter?" Draco couldn't keep a sudden smile off his face. "Did you ransack Robards office or something?"

"Or something." Potter was actually blushing now. "Anyway, I realised that Draco was our agent, and that he was in trouble. Based on the intelligence he had gathered, I traced him to a house in Surrey. I thought I could extract him easily, but—"

"They had already abandoned ship by then," Draco explained. "Bound me up with some impressive charms I'd love to reproduce, and rigged the house with a muggle bomb and some petrol accelerant that would destroy me, all evidence and any auror stupid enough to come after me."

Potter grimaced. "They must have temporarily charmed the scent out of the petrol; I didn't notice it at first. And I wasn't expecting a muggle bomb. But Draco and I got out."

"Potter figured out how to release me and apparated us to his home."

"Draco insisted on retrieving a flash drive first—this was with flames all around us, mind—but, yeah. We ended up singed and concussed and banged up, but otherwise all right."

He paused and turned to Draco's mother. "And Draco is all right, Narcissa. And I'm going to make sure he stays that way. He'll never have to work for Robards again."

Her eyes were watering. "But why—Draco, what possessed you to become an agent? We thought the aurors were using you as a mere consultant."

Potter answered before he could. "Robards blackmailed him. He couldn't resist making better use of a former Death Eater with a flair for occlumency. So he threatened to seize your home and send your husband to Azkaban if Draco didn't comply."

Merlin, Potter was enraged again. Draco could almost smell the anger in him, all directed at Robards. If he were in ferret-form, he would be able to smell that anger. Someday he would have to explain that Robards' ruthlessness actually served the aurors well. But not tonight.

"So you've made sure that Draco is no longer under Robards' thumb, Mr. Potter." Draco's father finally put his wine glass down.

"Yes, Lucius, I have."

"But it seems you've placed him firmly under your own."

Draco caught his breath and glanced at his mother, hoping she had some trick to defuse this situation. But she just shook her head.

Potter met the man's gaze and held it. "You know, I don't feel bad about that. Draco lived under your thumb, then under Voldemort's, and then under Robards'. I reckon he's best off under mine."

Fuck. Draco didn't know whether to laugh or to pull his hair out. "Ah, this has been a lovely dinner, but perhaps we should put off the rest of our discussion until morning."

"The rest?" His father actually looked alarmed.

"Yes, sir." Draco kept his tone as respectful as possible. "We still need to, ah, iron out some details regarding the manor. We have to make certain that it's officially under Potter's protection so that the ministry can't seize it."

"Yes, I think we should postpone that discussion until morning." His mother stood up. "Draco, I'm sure you can guide Harry to the proper guest room? The one adjacent to yours will do quite nicely, I think."

"Yes, mother."

Potter stood up as well. "That won't be necessary. Draco and I can apparate back to my place."

"No, Potter." Draco gave him a speaking look. "We'll both remain here for the night."

"But—"

"If I can survive the rest of my life under your thumb, you can survive one night at Malfoy Manor."

"Right." Suddenly Potter's defiance evaporated, and he was actually blushing again. "I'll, uh, just follow you, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

One thing Harry would say for Malfoy Manor: the guest room bed was the most comfortable thing he could imagine. He draped himself across it, still dressed in the shirt and trousers that Draco had deemed appropriate for the evening, and relished the feeling of sinking into a cloud that somehow gave just the right support.

The whole room was perfect. Most of Malfoy Manor had a sumptuous but somber feel to it, and Harry almost fancied that he could hear echoes of Voldemort's tread. But this room—with its soothing, sage-coloured walls—was different.

It was still sumptuous, but not nearly so heavy. It was the sort of room that granted you a reprieve from the rest of the house.

Better yet, it seemed more personal than most of Malfoy Manor. The books on the shelves looked worn and thumbed-through. There was a framed muggle photograph on the wall of Draco arm in arm with a goth girl. That was Shira, most likely. It was obviously taken near Manhattan: they were leaning against the railing of a pier with the twin towers standing proudly behind them, just across the river.

Even if Harry hadn't known Draco was gay, he would not have taken Shira for his girlfriend. The photo somehow screamed platonic friendship.

There was a muggle painting in the room too, quietly dominating the opposite wall. It was a charming picture of two camels, of all things. Harry forced himself off the bed for a closer look.

"Potter?" Draco knocked on the door that linked their rooms.

"Come in."

The door opened and Draco stepped inside. He hadn't changed for bed yet either. "I think you'll find some joggers and tee-shirts in that wardrobe. Or proper pajamas, if you prefer. I'm still taller than you, but something ought to fit—oh, like that water colour, do you?"

"Love it. It's muggle, isn't it? I didn't think your parents would have something like this."

"Oh, there's plenty of muggle art here."

"No, I meant—I don't know. Sort of playful? Still realistic, but, yeah, playful."

Draco took a seat on the bed. "That's as good a word as any. And that's my piece, actually. It's a Ruvein Rubin."

Harry turned to face him. "Er, should I know who that is?"

Draco grinned. "Not really. A bit niche, I suppose. Shira's uncle introduced me to his work. I meant this one for an investment, but now I'm too attached to sell it."

"I can see why." Harry smiled back at him. "Did you choose everything for this guestroom? You know, the colours and furnishings and such?"

"Mostly. This isn't the guestroom, though. It's mine."

"Oh." Harry stared at him, impressed that he'd put together such a calming and, well, grown-up room. Ron and Hermione's flat looked like it belonged to frazzled, caffeine-addicted university students. And 12 Grimmauld Place was currently a gothic disaster.

Draco shrugged. "It's more comfortable than the guest room, so I did the polite thing and put you in here."

"I'd offer it back, but I refuse to give up that bed."

"Normally I wouldn't either, but what with you being my lord and master . . . ."

Harry winked. "Very proper."

Draco made a face. "Potter?"

"Yeah?"

"Take off your glasses."

He had barely complied when Draco hurled a pillow at his face. Harry caught it easily and swung it back at him, but Draco grabbed the other one on the bed first and used it to block the incoming blow.

The ensuing pillow fight was probably more competitive than it needed to be, but it ended with both boys collapsed on the bed, laughing. It was the first time Harry could remember fighting Draco with no wands and no fists involved, and somehow that seemed to settle certain long-held grudges. For both of them, he hoped.

Draco turned toward Harry and propped himself up. "You could be generous and share the comfy bed, you know."

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Don't worry, Potter,” he drawled. “I'm not assaulting your hetero virtue. Not tonight."

"Hetero virtue?" Harry propped himself up a bit too. "How do you know I'm not a little bent?"

Draco's grey eyes widened. He sat up, drew one knee to his chest and then reluctantly shook his head. "If you are, I'm not ready to find out. Not here."

Truth be told, Harry wasn't ready to find out yet either—especially not at Malfoy Manor.

"So I guarantee a platonic night," Draco continued. "Unless your taste is peculiar and, ah, a bit alarming."

"What do you—"

But Draco transformed before Harry could finish the sentence, and all Harry could do was laugh as a white-blond ferret scrabbled onto his chest.

"You don't play fair, do you?" Harry asked, stroking Draco's head.

Draco responded by nuzzling against his neck.

He was a beautiful animal, no question, with an adorable, pointed and, yes, twitchy face—though hopefully Hermione would never remind him about the twitchy part. His whole sleek body was covered in gorgeous Malfoy-blonde fur. All except for the discoloration on the inside of his left foreleg, but Harry understood about that.

"Fine, Draco. You can share the comfy bed with me. But at least let me get changed first."

The little furball gave what could pass for a nod and then performed a complex ferret-tumble off the bed. He engaged in more impressive acrobatics as Harry got up and walked over to the wardrobe. By the time Harry changed—he found joggers that almost fit and a touristy I 'heart' New York tee—Draco was scaling a bookcase.

"You're going to hurt yourself, you know. Come down here." Harry held up his arm to him.

Draco leapt down and draped himself around Harry's shoulders. It was impossible not to smile at that, so Harry didn't bother trying to look stern.

"How did you become so comfortable as a ferret? When Moody transfigured you—sorry, I mean Crouch Jr.—shit, I never saw you so frightened and humiliated."

Draco nipped his ear in reply.

"Stop that!" Harry pulled him off his shoulders and dropped him onto the bed.

Draco stretched himself out on the covers, utterly unrepentant.

Harry smiled again. "All right. I might have deserved that one."

No response to that, so Harry just climbed under the covers. "Come here."

The ferret scrambled onto Harry, dove under the covers, and ended up in between Harry's chest and tee-shirt, sticking his small head out from under the collar. Harry laughed and decided that sharing the shirt with cute-furball-Draco wasn't all that terrible.

"Night." He scratched Draco behind the ears, closed his eyes, and drifted off to a sound sleep.

 

->*<-

 

When Harry woke up, Draco was out from under his tee-shirt, but still burrowed under the covers, curled up alongside Harry. He didn't seem to be awake yet—did most ferrets sleep so soundly?

Harry stroked him gently, careful not to disturb him. It still amazed him that Draco had accepted his ferret-hood with good grace, considering the way Crouch Jr. had humiliated him. Merlin, just reminding Draco of the transfiguration had been enough to shut him up for weeks afterward.

Maybe it wasn't so astonishing, though. Draco was twenty now, not a spoiled prick of a fourth year. And he had survived both Voldemort and the war. Of course he'd grown up.

And it took six months to become an animagus, didn't it? And you didn’t learn what animal you would become until after your first transformation. Although, if Draco knew what his patronus was, he might have known in advance. Harry remembered hearing that it was almost always the same.

Could Draco even cast a patronus charm? It was a rare spell outside Dumbledore's Army and the aurors, but Robards should have made sure it was in Draco's arsenal before sending him into dangerous undercover work. If he didn't know the patronus charm, Harry would teach it to him. Even if he was free of working for Robards, anything could happen. And Draco was, well, Harry's responsibility now.

Draco stirred just then and moved so that he could nuzzle against Harry's neck. Harry even felt a little ferret tongue lick his skin.

He smiled as he kept stroking Draco's fur. "Morning."

Draco tumbled off of him, sat up and transformed into his human self. He was still wearing his dressy shirt and trousers from last night, though they were rumpled now.

He arranged himself cross-legged on the bed, somehow looking elegant as he did so. "Morning, Potter. Sleep well?"

Harry sat up too. "Yeah. First time I've ever had a pet who could curl up in bed with me. First time I've ever had a pet at all, really, who wasn't my owl."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "Pet?"

"Yes."

"Are you trying to start another pillow fight?"

"No, I'm being serious." Harry reached out and took hold of Draco's wrist. Of course he wanted to tease him over the ferret thing—he deserved a little revenge, didn't he?—but there was more going on, and he felt like he had to articulate it. "Because your father's right about me, you know."

"That's a broad statement, Potter. Care to be more specific?"

Harry stared into those grey eyes of his—eyes that seemed dangerously stormy at the moment. "He's right that I want you under my thumb. And I can't promise that I won't be a bastard about it sometimes. Remember sixth year?"

Draco turned even paler than usual. "Vividly. But again, you'll need to be more specific."

"You were in the Room of Requirement, secretly fixing that cabinet. I scared Goyle off guard duty, but he was noisy about running away. So you must have known someone was just outside the room."

Draco, who had been giving Harry an intense look, suddenly smiled. "Oh, I knew it was you. You were my personal stalker that year."

Harry smiled too, but he tightened his grip on Draco's wrist. "At that point, I couldn't figure out how to get into the room and see what you were up to. But I also knew you couldn't afford to get caught in there. I knew you'd be hiding and squirming for as long as I stayed on the other side of the wall."

"And you loved that, didn't you?" Draco gave him an oddly fond look. "You loved having that power over me."

"Yeah, I did." Harry paused. "Look, if you don't really want to be under my thumb, it's fine. We can forget about this life debt. I'll still help you and your family."

"No." Draco's voice was sharp. In fact, he looked a little abashed because of it. "You're right about me, Potter. I've always lived under someone's thumb—I'm used to it."

"And that's the way you want it?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "Except that I want someone I trust from now on. Someone decent."

Harry felt himself blush. After all their history, it seemed astonishing that Draco saw him that way. And almost equally amazing that he didn't see his father in that light. He had always worshipped the man.

He let go of Draco's wrist. "So your father. You don't, ah—"

"Trust him?"

Harry nodded.

"I don't trust his judgment. Besides . . ." He paused to shrug. "I know what my father is, all right? And I know I'm like him, but—"

"You're not like him."

He scoffed. "Salazar, Potter. You're so naive. I know his contempt for muggles and mudbloods—er, muggle-borns—is rubbish. And I don't have the stomach for his brand of cruelty. But we're still alike."

Harry shook his head. "You've always been a selfish, spoiled git—”

"Please, don't hold back."

"—And you've got your own brand of cruelty."

"Well, I learned from the best."

"Maybe." Harry sighed. He could see what Draco was getting at, but he already knew Draco's faults and weaknesses. He already knew Draco. They hadn't been rivals and enemies all those years for nothing.

"You're not like him," Harry repeated. "Your real crimes were committed under duress. Lucius all but ran into Voldemort's arms, at least until you were in danger."

Draco shook his head, sneering a little. "You're quite generous in your reading of me, but never mind. You can see why I don't trust myself enough to be in charge of my own life. It's never landed me anywhere good."

Harry snorted. "Merlin, if you had come to me sixth year—"

"Oh, you'd have loved having me under your thumb back then."

"I'm loving it now."

The sneer stayed in place. "True. But I reckon Granger will keep you from becoming a proper tyrant." He raised his eyebrows again. "So are we sorted?"

"Not quite." Harry took a deep breath. "How do you feel about moving into Grimmauld Place with me? The old Black residence, I mean. For now, at least."

"That's fine."

"It is?"

"Of course. Easiest way to place myself at your beck and call.”

Fuck. It was hard not to roll his eyes at the sarcasm dripping from Draco’s voice. “There’s that, yeah. But I want you to be sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry could think of any number of reasons. Draco might not want to share a house with his former nemesis. He might already have a flat of his own somewhere. Or . . . well, he’d grown up here at Malfoy Manor. He was probably attached to the grounds, the mansion, and this perfect, soothing room.

“I thought perhaps you wanted to stay here now. Now that you’re really back.”

“Trust me, this hasn’t felt like home for a long time.” Draco’s eyes seemed to look through him and straight into the past. “Not since that monster took control of it. I’ll visit my parents here, but I’d as soon live elsewhere.”

Harry blinked, remembering that the Dark Lord had forced Draco to torture people here. "Right. Was Voldemort ever here in this room?” For some reason Harry’s stomach clenched at the thought.

But Draco shook his head. “Not that I know of. He didn’t bother with every corner of the mansion. As far as I know, the other Death Eaters left it alone too.”

“I’m glad. Maybe that’s why your room feels so different from the rest of the manor. Much less, um—”

“Oppressive?”

“Yeah.” Harry shook himself. “So, ah, Grimmauld Place. Would you help me—I don't know. Pull it together? Make it look like a non-goth adult lives there?” He paused to glance at the picture of Draco and the girl who was probably Shira. Whoever she was, she was definitely goth. “Uh, not that there’s anything wrong with goths. But it’s not really my style."

Draco was suddenly smiling again, without the sneer. "Could do, yeah. Anything else?"

"Yeah, there is." Harry looked him in the eyes, trying to disguise how nervous he was. "If you're serious about all this . . . ."

"Come on, Potter." Draco looked exasperated now. "Out with it."

"I want the right to stop you entering an arranged marriage."


	5. Chapter 5

Salazar, Potter was still an arrogant shit sometimes. Not that Draco minded, exactly. He wore it well—and he, of all people, was entitled to it. Regardless, the sheer chutzpah of the man never failed to astonish Draco. "So you want the power to stop me from marrying? Want me all for yourself?"  
  
Potter's face turned bright red. "I want to stop you from making an enormous mistake."  
  
"What makes you think it would be a mistake? You haven't even met Shira or her family."  
  
“That’s her, isn’t it?” He pointed to the muggle photo hanging on the wall.

“Yeah. What, you don’t like the look of her?”

"No! I mean . . . ” Potter blushed yet again. He was almost scarlet this time as he chose his words. “Yes, I mean. She looks nice and all. But it's a marriage your parents are choosing for you! You've already said you don't trust your father's judgment—"

"Don't throw those words back at me! This is different—"  
  
"No it's not. Besides, why do you want to marry any woman? Aren't you gay?"  
  
"Of course, but so what? So is Shira."  
  
That shut Potter up, at least for a few seconds. "She's . . . she's a lesbian?"  
  
"Yes. That's partly why my parents—and hers—think a marriage between us will work out."  
  
"How could it possibly work out?!"  
  
"Are you really this clueless?" Draco stared at him, half in amusement and half in bewilderment. "You think Shira and I can't manage to shag enough to produce a couple of little Malfoys?"  
  
"That's not what I mean. I'm talking about actual happiness and fulfillment and—fuck, I want to wipe that sneer off your face."  
  
"I'm not sneering."  
  
"Yes you are!"  
  
"Look, I'm not trying to." He paused, feeling the slightest tendril of fear curl in his stomach. He would never make the mistake of underestimating Potter’s temper; he’d been on the wrong side of it too many times. "You're not going to start another muggle brawl with me, are you? Because I've no desire to try and punch above my weight—"  
  
"No! No, Malfoy, we're done with fist fights. And that's—that's not how I wanted to wipe your sneer off." He took hold of Draco's wrist again, gently this time. "Come here."  
  
He urged Draco toward him, but slowly. Draco could have stopped him easily had he wanted to.  
  
But he didn't want to stop him. Potter had lost his mind, obviously, but that was fine with Draco. Especially as their lips pressed together.  
  
It was a long and surprisingly chaste kiss, at first. But soon they were opening their mouths to each other and exploring each other. It seemed neither of them cared that they had morning breath or that Draco's parents were somewhere nearby or that this was probably a disastrous idea.  
  
Draco only cared that he was actually living a long-standing, top secret, shameful dream: kissing Harry-fucking-Potter . . . kissing the man he had once regarded as his worst enemy. The man he had hated for years, with all the passion and loathing and pent-up lust a stupid teenager could muster.  
  
They broke apart, finally—but, fuck, Potter's eyes were drinking Draco in.  
  
"Why'd you stop, Potter?"  
  
He blushed even deeper this time. "I, uh, I don't know what to do next."  
  
Draco leaned toward him and kissed him again. Potter didn't object, so he moved closer. Suddenly both of them were pressing against each other and fumbling and tumbling back down onto the mattress.  
  
Draco was underneath Potter now. They were still clothed, but he knew each could feel how hard the other was as they kissed and rubbed and frotted.  
  
"Fuck." Potter was panting now. "Is this okay?"  
  
Draco replied with a gentle laugh as he moved faster to match him. "More than okay, you idiot. Don't stop!"  
  
Potter laughed too. "Good. Because this is—fuck, this is really good."  
  
"Shhhh." Draco wrapped his arms more tightly around him, holding him through his climax. Potter returned the favour as Draco came a moment later.  
  
They stayed like that for a while, spent and close and satiated. When Potter finally rolled off of him, Draco tugged him over so that his head was in the crook of Draco's shoulder.  
  
"So," Potter said. "I'm, uh, a bit new to this. But I think I am a little bent."  
  
Draco laughed. "Or you're just turned on by having power over me."  
  
Potter smiled up at him. "Yeah, there's some of that too."  
  
"Tell me something." Draco carded his fingers through Potter's hair. "Are you new to this because I'm another man, or are you just new to this?"  
  
"Both. Going to have a laugh at that?"  
  
"No. I don't understand how that's possible, though. Weren't you seeing the Weaselette back in sixth year? Though I suppose you two never did anything but snog."  
  
"Well, she was even younger than me." Potter sounded defensive.  
  
"And now—shit, Potter, there are Scarhead groupies everywhere. You never shagged any of them?"  
  
"Not really what I'm looking for. So while I was snogging Ginny, were you shagging Pansey? Or, Merlin, was it Blaise?"  
  
Draco gave a short, bitter laugh. "Neither. I don't think I could have gotten it up for anyone in sixth year. Not even you."  
  
Potter's eyes widened as he propped himself up. "You fancied me back then?"  
  
"I fancied you since you fetched Longbottom's remembrall, at least."  
  
"You had a funny way of showing it."  
  
"This might come as a surprise, Potter, but I lacked a certain emotional maturity back then."  
  
He grinned. "Yeah, I noticed. And you can call me Harry now, you know."  
  
"Are you going to call me Draco when I'm not a ferret?"  
  
Potter—no, Harry—pushed away from him and sat up. There was an incredulous look on his face. "Is that the only time I've called you by your given name?"  
  
He sat up too, furrowing his brow. "Not quite. I think I'm also Draco when you've just pulled my arse out of a fire.”  
  
"You're right, I think. Sorry, Draco."  
  
"Don't be. I'm just amazed that you don't prefer ‘Master’ for yourself."  
  
"Well, you'll address me that way in public, of course."  
  
Draco reached for a pillow to smack him with, but Potter—no, Harry, damn it—moved fast enough to stop him. "Not now. We're not done talking about this arranged marriage of yours."  
  
Shit. So he was on about that again. "I think it's your power trip that we're not done talking about."  
  
"Draco, come on. Do you really want this marriage?"  
  
'That's . . . complicated."  
  
"That's not an answer.”  
  
Draco sighed as he sat up. "Fine, Harry. You want that much control? All right, then."  
  
He looked astonished. "All right? You're giving in?"  
  
"Yes. But Shira and I weren't going to make a final decision until September, after her brother's bar mitzvah. So you'll wait that long too. Agreed?"  
  
He hesitated, but seemed to decide that he couldn't force a better deal. "Yeah, okay."  
  
"And you'll come with me, as my plus one, so you can meet her and maybe understand a little better."  
  
Harry furrowed his brow. "Aren't you her plus one?"  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "Of course not. She's bringing her girlfriend."  
  
"Her girlfriend . . . so you each bring a separate date and then talk about your potential engagement? How does that possibly work?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, Potter. How can you possibly be so bourgeois about this?"  
  
"I'm only half an inbred pure-blood, remember?"  
  
"Yes, I remember. You're making it painfully obvious."  
  
Harry almost smiled at that; Draco could see it in his eyes. But then his face grew serious. "We can't shag—or, um, dry hump?—or anything else until this is sorted. So maybe we shouldn't wait until September."  
  
Draco groaned and sank back into the mattress. "You actually are going to be this proper and annoying, aren't you?"  
  
"I told you I'm a romantic. And I do want you all for myself."  
  
"Bloody-virtuous-Potter." Draco sighed again, but he couldn't stop himself from giving Harry a look of pure affection. "You're going to be the death of me."

 

->*<-

 

Harry felt oddly shy as he changed back into yesterday's trousers and then waited, topless, for Draco to lend him a fresh shirt. Merlin, what was the matter with him? He'd changed in front of Draco last night without a second thought.  
  
Of course, Draco had been in his animagus form then. Pointless to feel shy in front of a ferret.  
  
"Here, try on this one." Draco was facing the wardrobe, mostly, but with one arm stretched toward Harry, offering a dark green shirt.  
  
"Slytherin's colour? Really?"  
  
Draco turned around to face him. "You'd have done well in our house—don't pretend otherwise. Put it on."  
  
There was an appraising look in Draco's eyes now—oh, right. That explained why Harry felt shy. Best to brazen it out, probably. "Like what you see?"  
  
Draco studied his bare chest and then gave a nod of satisfaction. "Very much. The aurors keep you fit. Here, let me help you."  
  
Next thing Harry knew, Draco was buttoning up his shirt for him, starting at the bottom.  
  
"Quite domestic, Draco."  
  
He gave Harry a look. "I've been waiting a long time to put you in proper clothes. There, you do look good in that colour. Brings out your eyes and all. I suppose nothing can be done about your hair?"  
  
"Um, no. It doesn't take to combing—"  
  
"Never mind. It suits you. And it's iconic now, along with the glasses, so there's no point putting you in lenses either." He paused to pick up Harry's hand, only to release it with a scowl. "You're in desperate need of a manicure. We should see to that today."  
  
Harry swallowed a smile. Draco seemed to take this all too seriously. "We've got other things to worry about. We have to talk with your parents and figure out how to transfer the manor to me."  
  
"Don't expect them to be overjoyed at that prospect."  
  
"I don't. They're not going to murder me, are they, to put the place back in Malfoy hands sooner?"  
  
Draco seemed to weigh that possibility. "Unlikely. They would be prime suspects. And they do like you a bit, you know, for saving me."  
  
"Well, that's reassuring. You also have an appointment with Robards today. I want to be there when he thanks you for your services. Then we'll go register you as an animagus—you don't have an excuse to keep that hidden anymore."  
  
"Ah, Potter?"  
  
"Harry." He paused to elbow him. "Again, except when we're in public, in which case 'Master' will do."  
  
Draco snorted. "The Prophet will have a field day with that. They'll be eating up this life debt as it is."  
  
Harry dug his hands into his pockets, trying to hide his surprise. "So you want that to be public knowledge?"  
  
"It has to be. How else to explain why you're spending so much time with a former Death Eater?"  
  
"That's easy, Draco. Friendship."  
  
"We're not friends."  
  
"Not friends?" Harry stared at him. "Draco, we've been getting on fine. More than fine. And we've been talking and laughing and, uh, nearly screwing—"  
  
Draco shut him up with a quick, chaste kiss to the lips. "You can't be my friend when I'm relying on you to keep me in line. You don't order Granger or Weasley about, do you?"  
  
"No, but—"  
  
"We've got a different sort of relationship, that's all." He put a hand on Harry's cheek. Slowly, as if he were the shy one now.  
  
"Draco—"  
  
"It's all right, Harry." He let his hand drop, but that fond look was back in his eyes. "Our relationship still includes, you know, affection and—well, whatever the fuck else is happening between us."  
  
"You have too narrow a view of friendship."  
  
Draco just shrugged as he continued to look Harry over.  
  
Harry wasn't sure what more to say. The Draco from back at Hogwarts would have never wanted people to know about the life debt. He'd have seen that as a humiliation.  And maybe that summed up Draco back then. Always worried about the image he projected; always terrified of embarrassing himself or failing his father's expectations. At least until sixth year, when he suddenly had more life and death issues to worry him.  
  
Shit, Harry wished he'd known how insecure Draco was then. A lot of his bullying, cruelty and general brattiness must have stemmed from that. If Harry had known, maybe things could have been different between them at Hogwarts.  
  
"What are you thinking, Potter?" Draco adjusted Harry's collar.  
  
"I'm thinking that you seem—I dunno. More comfortable in your own skin?"  
  
Draco did that thing he always did with his eyebrows: that weird but effective way he had of arching them. "Then I'm a better actor than I gave myself credit for."  
  
"Doesn't look like an act." Harry initiated another chaste kiss, but stopped himself from pressing for more. "Sure you want people to know about this life debt?"  
  
"For your information, there's no shame in a Malfoy paying his debts."  
  
"Hermione might start a new SPEW campaign to free you from oppression, you know."  
  
"Casting you in the light of the oppressor? That should be fun." There was a sudden gleam in Draco's eyes. "Maybe I should call Skeeter—just think of the stories I could make up about you this time."  
  
Harry laughed as he turned toward the door. "Do your worst."  
  
"I might just," Draco retorted, following him out of the room. "The Prophet has been fawning over your arse for far too long now."

  
->*<-

 

Draco was in heaven. Or as near to heaven as a Malfoy could possibly get.

Harry was stretched out on the ugly chesterfield at Grimmauld Place, lying on his back with his knees over one of the arms. Draco, in ferret-form, was curled up on his chest, semi-dozing as Harry stroked him with one hand and held up a book about ferrets—an ironic gift from Weasley—with the other.  
  
It was hard to say what made this so heavenly—except that, for the first time since sixth year, Draco wasn't living with a relentless fear coiled in his gut. Thanks to Harry, he was okay, his parents were okay, and even Malfoy Manor was okay. And now Draco had the rest of his life to show his gratitude.  
  
He tried to figure out if he was bitter about that, if he resented Harry for putting him so far in his debt. Fuck, he ought to have enough pride to be bitter. But at the moment, Draco just felt relief.  
  
He let out a little chirrupy, chuckling noise as he nuzzled against Harry's neck. Perfect way to communicate his contentment. No way to say it in human form, really. Not without sounding like an utter sap.  
  
Harry smiled and scratched him behind the ears. "That's called a dooking sound, per this book. You're happy enough, then?"  
  
He kept up the 'dooking' in response. What a stupid word for it, though.

"Me too," Harry confided. "I know this—whatever it is between us—is moving fast, but . . . well, I'm glad you're here. Glad you're staying.”  
  
Draco wished he could roll his eyes. Trust Potter to be a sap and have no shame about it. But that was rather endearing.  
  
"Long day, yeah?"  
  
That was, presumably, a rhetorical question, so Draco just kept nuzzling and chirrupping away. Potter kept stroking him and even pressed his mouth, briefly, to the top of Draco's head.  
  
It had been a long day, though. Too long.  
  
They had spent it dealing with Draco's parents, dealing with Robards, and dealing with the tossers who gave Draco hell for not registering as an animagus sooner. Never mind that he'd been undercover, with permission from both Robards and Shacklebolt to avoid the registry.  
  
But all that was done now. Robards was satisfied and promised Harry he'd speak well of Draco's service. The Improper Use of Magic officials were finally satisfied, after taking forever to confirm Draco's status as a former agent and making him demonstrate his animagus form over and over.  
  
Most importantly, Draco's parents were satisfied. They had swallowed their pride and agreed to sign over a life interest in Malfoy Manor to Harry. The paperwork would take time, but Draco was fairly sure they would keep their promise to see this through. The manor was too vulnerable to seizure without Harry's protection. And they seemed to take Harry's word that he would not try anything underhanded—that the property would be left to Draco's heirs.  
  
But Draco had to endure a private conversation with his father. The man had made it clear that he did not believe Draco's relationship with Harry was platonic. He was willing to make his peace with that, so long as Draco still made a respectable marriage and still produced heirs.  
  
Draco didn't tell him that Harry would have the final say over any marriage. Why bother? By the time September came, Harry would have lost interest in Draco, at least as a romantic partner. He was too decent a human being to fall permanently in love with a former Death Eater.  
  
So he knew how this would play out: there would be a brief, poignant romance that would mellow into a sort of bemused affection on Harry's part. With luck, Harry would want Draco to stay in his life, but he would only be too happy to bless Draco's arranged marriage.  
  
Harry would go on to marry someone appropriately heroic and Draco—well, Draco would do his best to be a decent husband and loving father. And he would settle for whatever scraps Harry would spare him.  
  
"Should we stay in tonight?" Harry asked suddenly. "I did promise you that second date. You know, a muggle cinema?"  
  
Draco perched up, intrigued.  
  
Harry grinned; Draco could smell his amusement. "That looks like a yes."  
  
He transformed in response . . . and ended up straddling Harry on the chesterfield. Draco tried to wipe the smirk off his mouth as he gazed down at his saviour, but that proved impossible.  
  
Harry laughed and smacked his arse. "Off."  
  
"I'm not engaged yet, Potter."  
  
"Either get off or call Shira and let her know you're off the market."  
  
"How about I let her know that you and I are dating? I reckon she'll be fine with that, as long as I haven't interrupted one of her potion experiments."  
  
Harry smacked him again. "Off now, Malfoy."  
  
Draco leaned down and grasped Harry's shoulders. "Or what?" he whispered. "Want to give me a real spanking?"  
  
Harry bit back another grin as he rested his hands on Draco's waist. "Get off or . . . well, this book has a lot to say about proper ferret cages. I'm sure I could transfigure one for you. Might be just the thing for a time out—"  
  
"Fuck, Potter! You'd what? Order me to transform and then stuff me in a cage?"  
  
"Yeah, I would." Harry gave him a challenging look. "And you'd obey me."  
  
"You really are a right bastard, you know that?"  
  
He shrugged. "If you broke things off with Shira, we wouldn't be having this discussion."  
  
"There's nothing to break off yet!"  
  
"So tell her there never will be!"  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "You're going to be sick of me come September, don't you know that?"  
  
"What?" Harry gaped at him. "No, I don't know that. Neither of us know that."  
  
"Harry . . . ." Draco sighed and leaned down to kiss him—another gentle, chaste kiss. "There. I can behave myself."  
  
"I want a chance to see where this leads us, Draco." His green eyes were fond and determined and exasperated all at once.  
  
Draco climbed off of him and held out his hand. "Then take me to this muggle cinema. Even a platonic date ought to lead us somewhere."


	6. Chapter 6

"How about that one?" Draco pointed to one of the film posters.  
  
They were at the Vue Cinema near King's Cross, figuring out what to see. Harry raised his eyebrows at Draco's choice. "Um, **_Bridget Jones's Diary_ ** ?"  
  
"We read about it in that muggle paper, remember? It's the one based on the Jane Austen novel."  
  
"Um, yeah." Harry put a hand on Draco's back and guided him toward the queue. "So you know who Jane Austen is?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Famous nineteenth century author. Never read her works, but at least this film is based on a classic."  
  
"Right." Harry bit back a grin as he decided not to introduce Draco to the possibly condescending term 'chick-flick.'  
  
But Draco's choice was fine. Harry didn't have anything against Jane Austen—not that he'd read her either. But he'd been hoping, by some miracle, to find **_Ocean's Eleven_ ** still playing. He'd have to wait for that to come out on video, though. Or find a time turner.  
  
Draco, meanwhile, was fishing out his wallet.  
  
"No." Harry nudged him. "I've got this."  
  
"Have you?" Draco gave him an odd look. "Where did you get the cash from?"  
  
Muggle cash, he meant, though they were obviously keeping their vocabulary muggle-friendly and unsuspicious here.  
  
"I changed at our bank for a hundred quid. We've got more than enough for the cinema and dinner after."  
  
"Don't change money there again." Draco looked surprisingly serious as they shuffled forward in the queue.  
  
"Why not?" What did he have against Gringotts? Harry hoped he wasn't in for a lecture about the evils of the gold standard or the silver standard or whatever it was, because it would go straight over his head.  
  
"There's no official exchange rate, so—" Draco broke off. Then he sighed and lowered his voice. "Look, I have plenty of quid. And it's all yours now anyway."  
  
"No." Harry shook his head. "I don't really expect you to sign over your personal accounts to me."  
  
"I'm not signing them over to you. I'm just adding you onto them so you can draw from them at will."  
  
"Don't. I'm not going to."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "This, Harry,"—he made a motion with his hands, but it was obvious he meant the life debt—"isn't just for show."  
  
Harry wanted to groan at having his own words tossed back at him. They we're both getting good at that, actually.  
  
"I didn't say it was." Harry put his hand on Draco's back again, urging him forward as the queue kept moving. "But I don't need your money. And, come on, think how much I'd offend Kreacher if he thought I was stealing from the handsome, perfect Malfoy heir. I have to live with him, remember."  
  
That elicited another sigh from Draco—an exaggerated, long-suffering one. "Kreacher will take my side on this. He understands this sort of thing. He'll think I'm more perfect and noble than ever."  
  
He didn't actually add 'as well he should,' but Harry was sure the unspoken words were intended.  
  
He elbowed Draco as they moved up again. "You hardly know him."  
  
"I know he served my great aunt. So I know how he'll feel about this, trust me."  
  
"Twenty quid says Kreacher will be horrified by this whole scenario."  
  
"Oh, we can do better than to bet money." Draco looked thoughtful. "If I'm right, the end of this date won't be platonic."  
  
"I'm not going to sleep with you over this."  
  
Draco shrugged. "We don't have to go that far. No further than last night."  
  
"No."  
  
"What's wrong, Potter? Scared you can't resist me?"  
  
"You're not going to win this bet, so it doesn't matter, but—"  
  
"Oh, you are scared!" Malfoy's voice was annoyingly triumphant. "But I'll take pity on you. If I win, we'll just snog like a couple of young teens, all right?"  
  
Harry had to catch his breath. Fuck, even the thought of just that turned him on. "And if I win?"  
  
"Good question. What do you want? To buy that ferret cage?"  
  
"Oh, I'll do that either way."  
  
Draco snorted. "Keep dreaming. Now out with it. What do you want?"  
  
"Apart from you breaking off your engagement?"  
  
Draco snorted. "The engagement that hasn't happened yet?"  
  
"Yeah, that's the one." Harry paused to consider. "I want you to tell Shira, and your parents, that it might not happen."  
  
"Harry, they already know that. Shira and I haven't decided—”

“Make it clear that you might not accept any arranged marriage.” He paused. "That's what I want, Draco. Give us a chance."

Draco looked like he had a hundred objections. But, in the end, he didn't voice any of them. Instead his eyes softened and he shook his head a bit. "All right."  
  
"All right?"  
  
"Yes, Harry."  
  
"Good. That's . . . really good."  
  
"You have to win this bet first," Draco reminded him.  
  
Harry just nodded as the queue moved up again.

 

->*<-

 

The film was funny. Charming, even. And there was something oddly enjoyable about watching not only with Harry, but with a cinema full of strangers. Muggle strangers, presumably, though that didn't matter in this case. What mattered was the shared reactions: laughter, mostly, but some groans as well.  
  
Draco wondered why he hadn't gone to a cinema whilst he was in New York; the Baumgartens, in general, weren't afraid of muggle outings.  
  
Then he remembered the intense instruction on how to become an animagus, courtesy of Shira's aunt. Because it wasn't enough to follow the ritual, which took nearly nine months in his case. (He'd had to wait for the proper weather.) There was a certain amount of wandless magic involved too, assuming one was being forced to go undercover and needed to be as inconspicuous in animal form as possible.  
  
And there was the fact that Shira rarely emerged from her potions lab—a lab which she had quite illegally built into her cramped Hoboken apartment. Mordred only knew how many muggle regulations it violated.  
  
So his 'dates' with Shira involved testing wildly experimental potions. That and the occasional trip to the Strand, a used muggle bookshop in Manhattan that was, surprisingly, a pleasure to browse. Sometimes it even offered something of use to a wizard.

Draco smiled. He loved everything about the Strand, even though he’d never been to the Strand proper. ‘His’ Strand was an annex on Fulton and Gold.

He even loved the journey there. He and Shira—and sometimes Shira’s girlfriend, Jamie—would squash aboard the PATH train in Hoboken, surrounded by muggles of all descriptions, on the World Trade Center line. It had always seemed exciting, especially as his parents had never let him loose in London. They had guarded him carefully there. Even at King’s Cross they would hustle him as fast as possible through the barrier at platform nine and three-quarters.

But his parents weren’t there to guard him in Hoboken or Manhattan. So Draco, Shira and sometimes Jamie would rattle their way through the tubes under the Hudson River, ending up somewhere beneath the twin towers. Then they’d exit into an underground concourse, occasionally stopping at one of the little food places before heading up and out so that they could walk the rest of the way.

They’d all lose track of each other as they browsed the seemingly endless stacks and shelves, and they rarely returned home without at least two bags of used books that they couldn’t possibly squeeze into Shira’s flat. They could easily have ‘gone to the movies’ on one of those trips, but somehow they never had.

Draco shook himself out of his reveries and watched the words on the screen—the credits, he believed they were called. But he could feel Harry's eyes on him, so he turned to face him.

"What did you think?" Harry asked.  
  
He wanted to hear something about how clever muggles were, no doubt, but Draco was not about to give him that satisfaction. "I think . . . I think Bridget Jones is more gainfully employed than I am at present."  
  
The redirection worked; Harry cringed a bit. "Suppose you're technically out of a job now."  
  
"Except for redecorating."  
  
"That's a massive job at Grimmauld Place, actually." Harry looked thoughtful and a little apprehensive. "Before you start, I need you to figure out exactly what, um, interesting items are still there, what they're supposed to do, what they actually do, and whether they can be salvaged."  
  
"Or should be salvaged." Draco arched his eyebrows at Harry. "Not everything the Blacks owned should be fixed."  
  
"Probably not. Meanwhile—well, I think Hermione's going to want to talk with you about that flash drive too." Harry paused to chew on his lip. "Want to tell me anything more about it?"  
  
Draco was amazed it had taken him this long to ask, though he supposed they had both been distracted. And he had no objection to sharing his theory with Harry; it was only Granger who needed to be unprejudiced.  
  
"I will," Draco promised. "But at home. After I win our bet and claim my prize, of course."  
  
Harry just grinned. "You never answered my question, you know. How'd you like this?"  
  
"You know I enjoyed the film. We both laughed and aww'd our way through it."  
  
Harry squeezed his hand. "Come on. I want to hear you say it out loud."  
  
"What?" Draco lowered his voice, even though the room had largely emptied out. "That I was an idiotic prick to look down my nose at muggles all those years?"  
  
Those green eyes of his danced. "A misguided prick, let's say."  
  
"Bastard," Draco murmured. But he leaned over to brush their lips together.  
  
Harry didn't pull away, but he looked surprised. Surprised and a little wary.  
  
"Sorry." Draco knew his face was probably turning red, so he stood up and collected his jacket. "Bad place for two blokes to do that?"  
  
"Not necessarily." Harry stood up too and, to Draco's astonishment, took his hand. "I think we can handle anyone looking for trouble."  
  
Draco thought it unlikely that anyone would. There was an easy going vibe about Potter—and that wasn't superficial, exactly, but it wasn't the whole story either. Right underneath there was still a raw power to him. Salazar, it almost crackled at times.  
  
Draco had sensed that power the moment he met him, back when they were fitted for their first year robes. In their subsequent years at Hogwarts, he had both wanted him for it and despised him for it. Surely even muggles weren't oblivious to it.  
  
So, really, what muggle would randomly fuck with him?  
  
Harry was staring at him, he realised. There was a puzzled expression on his face, as if he were trying to work out what Draco was thinking. Fortunately, he didn't ask. He just interlaced their fingers as they vacated the cinema.  
  
And that, quite apart from the film, made this muggle date worthwhile.

  
  
->*<-

  
  
"Master Draco is a most noble wizard!" Kreacher's elderly voice quivered in admiration, causing Harry's stomach to turn.  
  
"Really, Kreacher?" he asked. "And why are you calling him 'Master?'"  
  
They were in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place. Harry was seated on the small, two-person couch. Draco was lying on it with his head on Harry's lap, his knees up over the arm, and an I-told-you-so smirk on his face.  
  
Kreacher, meanwhile, was standing in the centre of the room, extolling Draco's virtues. He paused only to answer Harry's question. "You are 'Master.' And as your chosen companion, young Mr. Malfoy is 'Master Draco.'"  
  
"Well, Master Draco here wants to sign over his personal fortune to me. Kindly explain why he shouldn't do that."  
  
"It's all part of the life debt I owe our master, Kreacher." Draco was obviously enjoying this. "And I'm not signing my fortune over to him, I'm merely adding him to my accounts. He can draw on them when or if he pleases. Or order me to support some worthy cause, if he must."  
  
Kreacher looked as if he were about to burst with pride from Draco's selflessness. "Master Draco is an honourable wizard who repays his debts! Only the most noble of pure-bloods understand—"  
  
"Enough!" Harry rolled his eyes. "Did you prepare a room for, uh, Master Draco?"  
  
"His belongings are all unpacked in your room, Master."  
  
"That's perfect," Draco piped up. "Thank you."  
  
"Best put a ferret cage in there too," Harry muttered.  
  
"He's joking, Kreacher. Oh, we brought you home a Thai iced tea. Harry says you like them. It's on that table there."  
  
Kreacher bowed and then disapparated with a little pop. The tea mysteriously disappeared at the same time.  
  
Harry carded his fingers through Draco's hair. "Is there any possibility of you wiping that smirk off your face?"  
  
Draco didn't even pretend to consider. "None. Shall we commence with the snogging?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
The smirk turned into a scowl. "What? Not keen?"  
  
Harry laughed. "I'm plenty keen, you tosser. But this is . . . this is good too, isn't it?"  
  
"You stroking my hair?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
That brought back the smirk. "You spend a lot of time caressing my hair or fur. You really do want a pet, don't you?"  
  
"I've got one." Harry tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the smugness out of his tone.  
  
Draco snorted. "So it seems. Fine, then. But I expect to be spoiled rotten."  
  
"Because that worked out so well for you in your childhood?"  
  
That earned Harry a playful smack on the arm. "Mind yourself, Potter. And for your information, it was the indoctrination that ruined me, not the spoiling."  
  
Harry leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead. "You're not ruined, Malfoy."  
  
Draco did that thing with his eyebrows again. "Could you be more of a sap?"  
  
"Fuck off. I'm allowed to be sentimental with my pet."  
  
Harry wasn't sure how far he could push Draco with this particular line of teasing, but fortunately he just laughed. He stopped, though, when he noticed Harry looking more serious.  
  
"What? What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing." Harry kept stroking him. "Just wondering what it's like for you. Being an animagus, I mean."  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Is this about me being a ferret? That's still not old for you?"  
  
"It'll never get old, but I'm not poking fun right now. It suits you, you know."  
  
"I hope you're going somewhere good with this."  
  
Harry chuckled. "Look, you're curious and intelligent and playful. Sometimes in a dickish way, but still. And you're, you know, pointy and angular the way a ferret is."  
  
Draco gave him a look.  
  
"You're pointy and angular in a really hot way," Harry clarified.  
  
"Thanks for that." Draco's eyes softened. "But ferrets are also hunters—you know, ratters and such. And we can break bones with our bites."  
  
Harry scratched him behind his ears, as if he were in ferret form. "I'm aware. Which is why we need to break your nipping habit."  
  
"I've never given you more than a love bite."  
  
"I'd argue, but I'm more interested in the fact that you just said 'we'—as if you were identifying as part of the ferret population."  
  
Draco seemed at ease with that. "I do, to an extent. I know what it's like to share their view of the world now. Our sight is shit but our hearing is magnified and our sense of smell is extraordinary. Each person has a unique scent, did you know that? I really like yours, by the way."  
  
Harry laughed. "Um, thanks?"  
  
"No, I'm serious. But I don't have words to describe it. Human sense of smell is so poor that we've never developed the vocabulary—but it's sort of . . . almost charged. Like the air when a thunderstorm is about to strike. But somehow you smell more like protection and safety than danger—" He broke off, blushing.  
  
Harry was blushing too, actually. He could feel the tinge of heat to his face. But it wasn't embarrassment, exactly. Or if it was, it was mixed with something else.  
  
He stopped stroking Draco and just rested his hand on top of his head. "I'm glad," Harry managed. "That's why we're doing this, isn't it?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Draco's voice was suddenly sharp.  
  
"It's why I called in your life debt. So I could protect you. Keep you safe."  
  
"From working under cover?"  
  
"Yeah, but also in general. You're mine, so I take care of you. That's how this works."  
  
Draco smirked again. "That's beautifully primal."  
  
Harry resumed his stroking. "Any objections?"  
  
"None." Draco winked at him and made a satisfied chirrupping sound that was impressively close to the way he could dook as a ferret.  
  
Harry laughed. "Good boy."  
  
Draco smacked his arm again. "Bastard." Then he pushed himself up. "Enough talk. I've won our bet, remember? Time to pay up."


	7. Chapter 7

Draco had told Harry a bold-faced lie: he never had any intention of just snogging like two virginal teens. At the very least, there would be more frotting-through-clothes. Or dry humping, as Harry had so inelegantly put it. The saviour couldn't possibly be virtuous enough (or infuriating enough) to resist that.  
  
But, as it turned out, he had underestimated Potter. And wasn't that the story of his life?  
  
So now Potter was up off the chesterfield and across the room. He looked frustrated and besotted and absolutely adorable. Despite his own frustration, Draco couldn't help but smile.  
  
"Are you still speaking to me, Harry?"  
  
"Yes." He didn't quite smile back. "Just stop pushing. We're not shagging until September."  
  
Draco snorted. "You're so sure you're going to forbid the arranged marriage for me? What if you're over me by then?"  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. "That's why you won't call it off yourself? You're afraid I won't want you after a few months?"  
  
"Yes, Harry." He couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice. "Look, we just sort of fell into this. And we're only twenty. And you . . . you've got your pick of witches and wizards. Ones without this."  
  
He unbuttoned his left sleeve and rolled it up, leaving his dark mark in clear view.  
  
But Harry didn't look away in disgust. He stared at it for a moment, without any particular expression, and then shook his head. "Draco, I see that all the time on you."  
  
"You do not." Draco should know—he'd been scrupulously careful not to expose it around him. It hadn't been visible even on the night of the explosion.   
  
Harry just walked back to the chesterfield and knelt down in front of him. He took Draco’s left arm and ran his fingers over the mark.  
  
"I saw it when I visited you in Azkaban that time, remember? Back during the trials. And I saw it during your trial when you were made to expose it."

Fuck. He was right, of course, but Draco had blocked those instances from his memory. And he did not appreciate having them unblocked for him.

"And I see it whenever you do your animagus bit—whenever you transform," Harry continued. "I noticed because your left, um, foreleg is the only part of your fur that's not pure Malfoy blond."

Draco glared at him. "A bit of discoloration on my fur isn't the same as this, Harry."  
  
"No, but I know what it means." His eyes were glued to the mark. "And it's not that I don't care—believe me, I do. I hate that his mark is on you. But it doesn't make me want to break up with you. It . . . fuck, I just want to remind you that you're mine now."  
  
Draco swallowed. For Potter to say he didn't want to break up with him—that meant he considered them to be in a relationship? Which was fine with him, just . . . unexpected.  
  
Suddenly Potter's—no, Harry's—hands were on Draco's shirt, unbuttoning it from the top. And that would be a welcome development, except there was no desire in his eyes right now. More like some sort of righteous indignation.  
  
"Uh, Harry?"  
  
"It's all right, Draco. I just want to see if I scarred you. You know, from that idiot duel and the Sectumsempra curse."  
  
"Yes, I know and no, you didn't." He swallowed again. "The dittany made the difference. Snape administered it on time."  
  
Harry had Draco's shirt open now and was inspecting Draco's chest for himself. But the slices and slashes from that vicious spell were long gone.  
  
"Harry, are you upset?"  
  
He looked up at him in shock. "That you didn't scar? God, no!"  
  
"Oh. I thought—I dunno. Thought you might want me to have your mark too."  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. "You think I'm that sadistic?"  
  
"I think you're a bloody possessive virgin is what I think."  
  
"Yeah? Well, you're not wrong." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Draco's chest. Just for a moment, though, and then he drew back. "I'm glad I didn't scar you. I don't want to hurt you. Maybe I did back then, but not like that. I had no idea what that spell would do."  
  
Draco quirked an eyebrow at him. "And yet you cast it anyway."

“Look, I was never the brains of the Golden Trio.”

“No, you've always been about raw, undisciplined power. But it doesn't matter—we’ve already talked about that duel. I’m not even counting it.” Draco paused to roll down his sleeve again.

Harry stopped him. “You don't have to hide it. Not if you don't want to.”

He rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I want to. I don't like having his mark on me either. I thought it would fade after his death, but apparently nothing short of amputation will remove it.”

“Not an option,” Harry agreed. “Anyway, the mark has no more power. Voldemort is gone, even if he managed to leave his marks behind.”

“He’s gone thanks to you.”

“Thanks to a lot of us, Draco.”

He shook his head. “Don't include me in that. I was on the wrong side.”

Harry grabbed his wrist—his left wrist. “You didn't identify me to those Death Eaters when you could have. You saved my life at that moment. And when I took your wand—and all the wands in your hand—honestly, you hardly put up a fight.”

Draco swore under his breath. “Stop making me out to be more than I am. You're only going to be disappointed.”

“I know exactly what you are, Draco.” He tightened his grip. “And I still have your wand, you know.”

“I'm aware. I remember what happened after my trial.”

He had gone to Harry, fully conscious of what it would cost him to humble himself. It had been one thing to beg the saviour to intervene on behalf of his father. But to ask for that wand back—fuck, Draco had swallowed an ocean of pride. 

“The wand didn't feel right to you anymore. Not then.” Harry's voice was thoughtful now. “It was mine by right of conquest. That's how Olivander explained it.”

“I know, Harry. It switched its allegiance to you.” He rolled his eyes. “Merlin, you were so fucking gentle when we both realised there was no point in me taking it back. I almost started hating you all over again.”

Harry smiled at that, but he was furrowing his brow at the same time.

“What is it?” Draco asked.

“How do you feel about your new wand?”

“It's serviceable.” He shrugged. “It's from the ministry, courtesy of  Robards. Olivander won't sell a wand to any Malfoy now. Why?”

“I don't want to get your hopes up.”

“Out with it, Potter!”

That gentle look was back in his eyes, softly gleaming the same way it had just after the trials. “Your wand belongs to me now. But . . . well, so do you.’

Draco blinked. “You think—you think what? That my wand and I will be in harmony again, since we both serve the same master?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe? Let's give it a try.”

 

->*<-

 

Harry collapsed on his bed with what was probably a stupid grin on his face. Draco collapsed right next to him, smiling just as broadly, so at least he had no right to judge.

They had just dueled twice. Playful duels with rather ridiculous hexes, but that was enough to test the wands.

First, Harry used his own wand and gave Draco back his. The wand seemed to work for Draco again. And not just in the perfunctory way that any wand will work for any wizard. No, it worked in a way that meant it recognised and acknowledged Draco.

Harry took Draco's wand back for the second duel. The hawthorne with the core of unicorn hair still seemed to recognise him as well. He'd been oddly comfortable using that wand ever since he took it off Draco—and not only because he had carried it against Voldemort.

“What are you thinking?” Draco nudged closer to him.

“How beautifully your wand still responds to me.”

Draco smirked as he made a show of glancing down at his groin. “Oh, you have no idea, Potter.”

Fuck, that went straight to Harry’s dick, so he elbowed Draco as punishment. “Get your head out of the gutter!”

“All right, all right!” He was still smirking, though. “Your wand responded to me too. Not the way my own did, but . . . more than just functional?”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He had given Draco his wand for that second duel. “The wands must sense some kind of connection between us.”

“Oh, I think you were right. They're putting up with me because I'm under your thumb.”

Harry reached over and tugged Draco to him, until he could rest his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I'd best keep you there, then.”

Draco kissed the top of his head in response. “So,” he said, “are you giving me my wand back?”

“I am, if you'll loan it back now and then. It's my favourite wand for certain warding spells.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and I think that makes sense. I used it for wards that took weeks or even months to set. And you were always good at long-term projects. Not too many people would have had the patience and persistence to fix that vanishing cabinet.”

Draco blanched, somehow turning even paler than usual. “I was highly motivated.”

“Shhhh.” Harry shifted and wrapped his arms around him. “I didn't mean to dredge up the past. Just meant you're good at that sort of thing.”

He received only a grunt in reply.

Harry didn't push him any further. He just stayed there with him, half wanting just to hold him and half wanting to fuck his brains out.

The wands, right. That was something abstract to think about. Since both wands behaved so well for Draco, that had to mean the connection between them was real, didn't it? They weren't just two kids messing about. They had long term potential.

Of course, they had been careful in the spells they used. Harry thought there was a real possibility that any attack Draco made would bounce off Harry and strike Draco instead. But the wands seemed to understand that they were playing.

A distinct popping noise interrupted Harry’s thoughts. Kreacher was suddenly standing near the bed, and a large, multi-level, ferret cage was equally unexpectedly tucked into the corner of the room.

Draco and Harry both sat up. There was, Harry noticed, a deliciously outraged expression on Draco's face.

“Kreacher, our master was joking about the cage!”

“No I wasn't.” Harry couldn't help the wide grin on his face. Kreacher might secretly be writing sonnets in honour of Draco's eyebrows, but at least he still obeyed Harry over him. “It's exactly what we needed, Kreacher. Look, Draco, it has hammocks and tubes and toys—”

“You bastard!” Draco reached for his wand, probably to sling some harmless hex at Harry. Probably.

“Don't,” Harry warned, catching his arm.

There was a gleam of mischief in Draco's eyes. “What are you going to do to stop me, Potter?”

Kreacher coughed, interrupting any response on Harry's part.

“Master and Master Draco should know that Mrs. Weasley nee Granger has sent an urgent owl.” He held out a sealed envelope.

Harry took it. “Thanks, Kreacher. We'll call you if we need anything else tonight.”

The house elf bowed and then disapparated. Harry opened the envelope as Draco looked on over his shoulder.

The missive was short and to the point. Evansia Gross of the Daily Prophet had contacted Ron and Hermione for comment on the story that Draco was currently serving a life-debt to Harry. Ron and Hermione intended to show up at Grimmauld Place first thing in the morning to discuss the matter.

Harry's mouth fell open. “Who told the Prophet?”

Draco carefully put his wand down. “I'm not sure.”

“But you didn't? I mean, we joked about you calling Skeeter . . . .”

“I didn't call anyone from the papers.” He hesitated. “Why are you upset about this? I told you I wanted it public. You never said you minded.”

“I thought we’d have time, Draco! I thought only our friends would know for now. I didn’t think the Prophet would hound us about this so soon.”

Draco bit his lip. “You didn't specify that.”

“And you said you didn't do this.” Harry narrowed his eyes.

“I didn't. Use veritaserum on me if you think I'm lying.” He shrugged. “You're an auror. You should have access to it.”

Harry slowly shook his head. “Not sure it would work. I know you're highly skilled in occlumency.”

Draco snorted. “Otherwise you would?”

“Yeah.” Harry strained to keep his voice even. “Otherwise I would.” He braced himself for an explosion of anger from Draco, but it never came.

Instead Draco just favoured Harry with a small, sour smile. “Fair enough.”

Some of Harry's own anger evaporated. “Draco, would you lie to me?”

“Yes, under certain circumstances.” He paused. “Unlike you, I'm not a saint.”

“I'm not either. You know that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, you're the closest thing I've got to one, so go ahead and be suspicious. That's your job, I reckon.”

Harry sighed and reached out to him. Somehow there was too much space between them now. “Come here.”

Draco moved over.

Harry wrapped an arm around him. “You really didn't contact them?”

“No, Harry, I didn't. But whoever did might have done us a favour.”

“Draco—”

“Listen, I'm living with you now. We’re going to be seen together. Plus your rights to Malfoy Manor will be a matter of public record.”

“All of that should lead people to assume that we're together, not that—”

“Harry, you can't let people think you're dating a Death Eater!”

“Former Death Eater.” Harry took a deep breath. “A former Death Eater who didn't identify me  when he had the chance, and who just risked his life in service to our ministry.”

Draco pushed away from him. “None of that matters. You have no idea what a pariah I am.”

“But—”

“No one thinks I was punished, Harry! At least if they know about the life debt, they'll—there’s a better chance of people accepting me. Of your friends accepting me.”

“My friends will—”

“Look at Weasley! He as good as said it, didn't he? He’ll tolerate me only if I'm serving you. And I’m sure that whole family of ginger paupers will feel the same.”

Harry wanted to argue. He also wanted to chide Draco for the 'ginger paupers’ bit, but he'd save that battle for later.

Meanwhile, if Harry were honest, he'd have to admit that Draco was probably reading Ron correctly. And, yes, the entire Weasley family would probably agree with him. There was more going on here, though. Draco was somehow being honest with him, yet distracting him at the same time.

“You might be right, Draco. But I want people to know we're together anyway.”

“We're not together! You won't even shag me.”

Harry shrugged. “You know how to fix that. You tell Shira and your parents—” He broke off. “Your parents. They notified the Prophet, didn't they?”

Draco's voice was almost painfully cautious as he answered. “I don't know. But they like to get ahead of stories about the family. You know, control the narrative and all that.”

Harry shifted away from Draco and then pushed himself out of bed.

“Potter, what are you doing?”

“Going to see your parents. I need to talk with them.”

“What? It's half eleven. We can't go to the manor now.”

“We aren’t. I'm going alone.”

Draco stared. “Not a good idea. If you're determined to go through with this, at least let me come—”

“No.” Harry cut him off. “Sorry, Draco, but I need a word without you trying to play diplomat.”

“But—”

This was a bastardly thing to do, but at the moment Harry didn't care. “Don't try to follow me. We're not on the floo network here and the wards won't let you apparate out alone yet.”

“Potter!” Draco looked furious now.

“We'll fix that,” Harry promised.

“Can I walk out of this house? Or am I a fucking prisoner?”

“You can walk out of here and apparate.  But don't. If you're serious about this”—Harry knew he didn't have to explain what 'this' was—“just stay put.”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but changed his mind. Instead he settled for a stiff nod.

He was still furious, Harry reckoned, but that nod was enough. Harry apparated without another word.


	8. Chapter 8

Narcissa was first down the stairs and into the sitting room. Neither she nor Lucius had bothered with proper clothes when the house elf woke them from bed; they were tieing on dressing gowns as they rushed to the boy who seemed determined to remain both a saviour and a bane to their family.

“Harry.” Narcissa attempted to sound calm and serene as she nodded a greeting. “Is everything quite all right? Is Draco—”

The slightest hint of guilt crept into Potter’s eyes, though his face was red with what was more likely anger. “He’s fine. I’m sorry, I should have told your house elf that. It’s not that sort of emergency.”

“Where is he?” Lucius demanded. He was standing right behind her, and she could hear both the irritation and apprehension in his voice.

“Home. I told him not to come with me. He’s—not happy, but he’s staying behind.”

It took Narcissa’s brain a moment to encompass the fact that by ‘home’ Potter meant Aunt Walburga’s old residence, as if her son no longer belonged in Malfoy Manor.

“Why are you here, Harry?” Lucius’s voice was tight as he placed a hand on Narcissa’s back. “Surely you didn’t arrive at midnight to tell us that you and our son are in the midst of some childish quarrel.”

Narcissa bit back a sigh. Of course Lucius’s first instinct was to antagonise the boy. “Why don’t we all sit down so you can tell us what this is about.” She was impressed by the evenness of her tone; really, she was quite good at keeping hostilities to a minimum. “Shall we summon an elf for refreshments?”

“No.” Potter remained standing. “I need to know—did you contact the Daily Prophet about the life debt between Draco and me?”

So he had found out already, and of course he didn’t understand why it was necessary. The boy hadn’t a shred of political sense.

“Of course we did,” Lucius snapped. “It would have come out regardless and someone has to control the narrative—will you kindly sit down?”

What happened next was beyond Narcissa’s powers to mitigate. Potter was shouting, enraged, about the bloody Prophet and Lucius was snarling at him for his idiocy when it came to dealing with the press and somehow both men drew their wands—

“Enough!” Narcissa almost didn’t recognize her own voice. She never yelled. But that word, full force, had definitely come out of her mouth.

And somehow she was standing between the two men, who both looked more than willing to hurl unforgivable curses at one another—and both were perfectly capable of it. She, for one, understood that Harry Potter was not the saint everyone thought he was.

But she didn’t remember moving and didn’t quite understand how she ended up where she was, in danger of being cursed by either or both men as they aimed for each other.

Lucius put down his wand immediately. She should have known that he, at least, would never harm her.

At length, Potter lowered his wand as well. And, to his credit, he had the grace to look abashed.

“I’m sorry.” He finally did sit down then, but he didn’t stop about the Prophet. However he was speaking, now, not shouting. His rage had softened into something tired and despairing.

Narcissa stared at the boy as he continued to ramble. She hadn’t realised how much he despised living in the full glare of publicity. Small wonder, though. She remembered how the Prophet had painted him as a deluded attention-seeker for insisting that the Dark Lord had returned, only to turn about and hail him as the chosen one when the truth could no longer be ignored.

Draco, she rather thought, had himself fed the Prophet some nasty stories about Potter. The boys really had hated one another during their years at Hogwarts.

Hailing him as a deluded menace and then as a hero: that—rinse and repeat—represented Potter’s entire relationship with the press. Well, the press was not always to be controlled; it had certainly betrayed the Malfoy family.

“They’ll turn it into something ugly,” Potter was saying. “What’s between Draco and me, I mean. And it isn’t! I swear, I’m not forcing him. I don’t care about the life debt. I only accepted it because Draco cares about it, but I told him—I said I’d still help him without that. And I still want to be with him without that. But they’ll say—”

Lucius snorted. “You’re pleased to have your childhood enemy under your thumb, Harry. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Potter turned an even brighter red, but his voice was frighteningly calm. “As I said, he’s better off under my authority than yours. I won't teach Draco to despise muggles and muggle-borns or anyone else you and your friends deem inferior. I won't indoctrinate him or force him to join a murdering gang of wizard supremacists.”

“But you'll enjoy lording it over him.” Lucius was back to snarling. “How does it feel to have a Malfoy sworn to obey your every command?”

“He wants this!” Potter was losing his temper again. “And the second he stops wanting it, then it ends.”

Narcissa stole a glance at her husband. Draco’s orientation had never troubled him; many witches and wizards of excellent stock were homosexual. But Draco happily submitting himself to Harry Potter, of all people . . . that was more than Lucius could be expected to bear.

Draco, however, was by no means cowed. He had ordered Potter to remain at Malfoy Manor last night, and Potter had meekly agreed. If their sudden passion for one another didn’t burn itself out, they would likely end up more-or-less equal partners. Draco wouldn’t be trampled, at any event.

Narcissa took a seat next to Potter and tentatively placed a hand on his arm. “Harry, when Lucius and I contacted the Prophet, we had thought it better to beg your forgiveness than ask your permission. We didn’t think you’d understand our reasoning.”

“I don’t.” He gave her hand a wary look, but didn’t shrug it off.

“I know. We meant no harm. You and Draco—you’re besotted with each other. That’s obvious. But we wanted to give the press something else to gossip about. We want them focusing on the fact that our son has enough honour to pay off his debt to you. We don’t want them speculating on how long your romance with an ex-Death Eater will last.”

“But you don’t want it to last, do you?”

Lucius scoffed. “Wrong, Harry. If this infatuation between you two stands the test of time, it’s all to our family’s advantage. But we’d as soon not have a torrid affair and subsequent break-up splashed on the front page of the Prophet.”

Potter glared up at him. “It’s more than an infatuation.”

“Is it?” Lucius gave him a look of polite disbelief. “And just how long have you two been seeing each other?”

The boy’s shoulders stiffened as he glared up at her husband. “Technically, only since this morning. But we’ve known each other for years.”

Narcissa bit back a smile. Oh, to be twenty again. “That’s true,” she acknowledged. “But you’ve always brought out the worst in each other.”

“I know. But we—if we can get past our history together, we can get past anything.”

“Delighted to hear it,” Lucius said. “Still, no need to flaunt your relationship in public. Especially now, when only the most traditional families still respect the concept of arranged marriages—”

“Oh, Draco’s not going through with that.”

There was a long moment of silence. Narcissa knew full well that Potter was enjoying their chagrin, but—with considerable effort—she pushed back her own annoyance. Potter was still the boy who had risked his life to save her son.

“Is that so?” she managed.

He nodded. “We already talked it over. Draco agreed that I’d have the final say come September. And unless things don’t work between us, and he’s madly in love with Shira by then, I’ll never allow it.”

Narcissa raised her other hand to prevent her husband from speaking. “Harry, an arranged marriage needn’t come between you two.”

Potter snorted. “It won’t, because they’re won’t be one. And why should it even be necessary? I know you want grandchildren, but there’s lots of ways for gay couples to—”

“None that are acceptable in pure-blood families!” Lucius interrupted.

“Gentlemen, please!” Narcissa took a deep breath. “There’s no need to discuss this now; September is some four months off.” She paused to squeeze Potter’s arm. “Harry, will you at least agree to keep your romantic involvement with our son quiet for the time being?”

“I don’t want him to be my dirty little secret, Narcissa.”

“And neither do we. But you two really should give yourselves some breathing room before you allow the press to comment.”

He fell quiet for a moment, but at length he nodded.

“That’s settled then.” Narcissa did her utmost to disguise her relief. “Now, some tea or coffee before you leave? Of course you’re welcome to stay the night in Draco’s room if you’d rather not apparate just now.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Harry stood up. “Thank you for, uh, receiving me so late. We’ll speak again soon.”

Lucius and Narcissa did the polite thing: they walked him out of the mansion and far enough from the wards guarding it so that he could disapparate with ease.

“Idiot boy,” Lucius muttered, the moment he was gone.

“Idiot saviour of the wizarding world, you mean—and of our family.”

Her husband snorted. “He might well mean an end to the Malfoy line. You realise that, don’t you? He could not have found a more complete way to avenge himself on us.”

“I disagree. He had the perfect revenge in his hands three years ago: he could have ensured that all three of us rotted in Azkaban.”

“Yes, the ever-magnanimous saviour.” Lucius shook his head. “Thanks to Potter, Draco might just find the courage to defy us and form a—a domestic partnership or whatever muggle term covers two men who wish to mimic a marriage.”

Narcissa looked at him thoughtfully. “It would mean there would be no formally recognised Malfoy heir. But Potter is correct; it needn’t mean the end of the Malfoy bloodline. A surrogate, with Draco as the biological father—”

“A child by such means would be a bastard, at best!”

“But still our grandchild.”

His eyebrows flew up. “Cissa—”

She took his arm with a sigh. “Don’t worry, I doubt it will come to that. Let’s not despair—or plot—until we discover one thing.”

He huffed, but started walking with her back toward the mansion. “Which is?”

Narcissa favoured him with a sly grin. “Why, whether Potter is trainable, of course.”

 

->*<-

 

Harry crept into his bedroom. It was dark, so he was pretty sure Draco was already asleep. Providing he wasn’t so pissed off that he had moved into another room for the night.

At first, that’s what Harry assumed Draco had done; there was no Malfoy-shaped lump in the bed. But as his eyes adjusted further, he realised there was a ferret-shaped lump on one of the pillows.

He smiled a little, partly because Draco’s animagus form was adorable, and partly because he had no idea how to interpret the furball’s intentions. Perhaps he wanted to show that he respected Harry’s decision to abstain from shagging at present. Or, more likely, this was Draco’s way of telling Harry that he wasn’t speaking to him at present.

Either way, Harry changed into a tee shirt and joggers and slid into bed. He reached out to stroke Draco, but got an angry hiss, complete with an arched back and bristling fur, in return. Shit, he was awake. And definitely not speaking to him.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “Look, I shouldn’t have stopped you from coming with me. I know they’re your parents. But I really thought—”

Draco apparently had no interest in what he really thought, because he interrupted by lunging at Harry and snapping the air perilously close to his arm.

Harry moved to grab Draco by the scruff of his neck—but Draco was fast enough to counter with a real bite to his hand. A sharp, stinging bite that drew blood.

That didn’t stop Harry. He still managed to grab hold of Draco and force him down on the bed, until the ferret was trapped lying sideways.

“Change back,” Harry ordered, “or I will throw you into that cage.”

After a few seconds of squirming, Draco complied. Harry was still holding him by the scruff of his neck as he became a twitchy human instead of a twitchy ferret. A twitchy human in silk pajamas, no less.

“What the hell was that?” Harry demanded.

“Sorry,” Draco muttered as his body finally stilled. “Thought you’d have better reflexes, you being an auror and all.”

“No, you wanted to hurt me. Are you testing me, Malfoy? Want to see how far you can push me?”

“Harry . . .”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Harry let out a snort of laughter, even though there was nothing funny about this. “What are you, Draco? A two year old testing his boundaries?”

“Look, can I sit up, at least?”

After a moment’s consideration, Harry released him. They both shifted until they were sitting on the bed, cross-legged, facing each other.

“Well?” Harry raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Draco just shrugged. “I don’t appreciate being left behind so you can have a private chat about me with my parents.”

“I’m sorry about that. And you’re right, okay? But that doesn’t mean you get to draw my blood.”

His pale face reddened just a bit. “I apologise. But if I’d really meant to hurt you—”

“You’d have broken a bone. Yes, I know.” And Draco could have done; Harry was well aware of that. “But if you bite me again like that you’ll find yourself muzzled whenever you’re in ferret form. Understood?”

Draco gave him a wary look, but finally nodded. “I’m always going to be like this, you know. I’m always going to lash out whenever, um—”

“Whenever you don’t get your way?”

That took Draco completely by surprise. For a couple of seconds he didn’t seem to know what to say. But then he managed a tight, sour smile. “Fuck off, Potter. But yeah. That’s exactly it.”

Harry wasn’t ready to smile back. Not whilst he was still bleeding.

Draco looked down at his hand and furrowed his brow. “We should fix that. Let me get my wand.”

He grabbed his old wand—the one Harry had just returned to him—off the table near the bed and performed an adequate “Episkey.” That wasn’t a simple spell, and not part of the standard curriculum at Hogwarts, so Harry wondered where and when he had learned it.

“That looks better.” Draco picked up Harry’s hand and examined it more closely. “Much better. No more puncture wounds, and there won’t be any scars.” He paused to look up at Harry. “I am sorry, though. It’s just that—”

“Just what?”

Draco took a deep breath. It sounded deep enough to fill both his lungs and then some. “Just that this is how I am. If you’re expecting me to change into some saint—”

“I expect you not to bite me in your animagus form!” Harry rolled his eyes. “That’s all I’m asking. I’m pretty sure there are a lot more requirements for sainthood.”

“And I’m pretty sure you have more requirements for me.”

“Yeah, but they’re all simple. Don’t use words like ‘mudblood.’ Don’t insult the Weasleys—”

“I’ve already sworn off the former. As for the latter . . . fuck it, I’ll try.”

Harry looked him over. Really looked him over. There was something about how intense his eyes were as he kept examining Harry’s hand, as if he was peering at a precious gem that didn’t belong to him. A gem that he would soon have to return.

“Draco, are you still afraid this won’t work?” He kept his voice soft. If this was another example of Malfoy’s insecurities driving him, it was best to reassure him.

“Define ‘this.’”

“Our relationship.”

Draco looked back up at Harry and gave him that tight smile again. It was a gentle smile this time, though, with just a hint of his customary sneer. “I think I’ll remain in your service for the rest of our lives. And I think you’ll always enjoy that. And you might even continue to enjoy my company, for the most part.”

“I want more than just your service and your company!” Harry tried to bite back his frustration. “We’re more than that, Draco.”

“Yes, until you find the right witch or wizard.” Draco shook his head. “I’m not going to change, Harry, don’t you realise that? I’ll always be hurting other people when I don’t get my way.”

Harry sighed. “I’m not trying to change who you are. Not at base.”

Draco snorted.

“I’m not! Look, I’ve seen you lash out plenty of times. But I already know the worst you’ll do.”

“I tortured people, Potter! I used an unforgivable curse—”

“Only under duress. Voldemort was forcing you.”

“I tried it on you during our infamous duel in the boys’ toilet.”

“I was too fast for you, and I’m not sure you hated me enough for it to work anyway.” He paused. “But earlier that year—remember when you paralysed me on the train, stamped on my face and threw my invisibility cloak over me?”

“You deserved all that for eavesdropping.” He didn’t look in the least repentant. “And I managed to break your nose, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m only sorry that someone found you before the Hogwarts Express made it back to King’s Cross.”

Harry finally smiled. “Yeah, that was rather brilliant of you, actually. If the aurors hadn’t been looking for me, I would have ended up back in London. But that’s not the point.”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m waiting for you to get to it.”

“The point is this.” Harry closed his eyes for a second, remembering the scene. “We were alone. You had let down the blinds so no one could see what was going on. Once you petrified me—nice spellwork, by the way—you had me completely at your mercy. But that broken nose and that almost-ride back to Kings Cross was all you did.”

“I couldn’t risk slitting your throat, Potter.”

“Did you want to?”

“No!”

Harry grinned. “See? That was your worst. I hated you at the time for it, but now . . . now I know that it shows your limits. And I’m okay with your limits.”

Draco looked away. “I almost killed two of our fellow students that year. One of them is your best mate.”

“You didn’t mean to harm them.”

“I meant to harm Dumbledore.”

“No, you didn’t. Besides, we’ve been over this. Voldemort was forcing your hand—”

“You think Weasel is so forgiving?” Draco did that thing with his eyebrows again.

Harry squeezed his hand. “No, but like you said, he’ll tolerate you as long as you’re under my thumb. And stop calling him Weasel.”

“Are you going to tell him to stop calling me Ferret?”

“No.” Harry gave him a wicked grin—he couldn’t help it.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Typical.”

“Yeah, your life is rough.” He leaned forward and planted a light kiss on Draco’s mouth. “Now listen, I’m not going to find another witch or wizard. And I’m not going to get tired of you. And we are in a relationship. I promised your parents I’d keep it quiet for now, so we don’t have to deal with the Prophet finding out about that too, but I also told them there’s no way I’m letting you go through with this arranged marriage—”

“You what!” Draco’s eyes were wide and horrified, as if a dementor had suddenly descended on the room.

“Well, I’m not.” Harry couldn’t explain why he felt defensive of all a sudden; he was doing the right thing. “They might as well know. And Shira might as well too, so let’s call her.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came out.

“It’s only what? Half ten there? Half eleven?” Harry asked. “Won’t she still be up?”

“Yes.” Draco’s voice was thin and completely devoid of any snark or sneer. “She’ll be up.”

“Come on, then.” Harry kissed him again, but Draco scarcely seemed to notice. “You’ve got a mobile, haven’t you? I do own one, but I don’t use it much, and I don’t even know if it will make international calls—”

“Is this an order?” Draco demanded, snapping out of his shock.

“Um, yes.” Harry nodded, trying to seem confident and in control. “Yes, it’s an order.”

Draco seemed almost to relax at that. “Fine. I’ll get my mobile.”

Harry nodded and told himself that everything was going well. Apart from ferret-Draco biting him, the night had gone better than he expected. He would still have to deal with the Daily Prophet and whatever its idiot article had to say about the life debt, but that was tomorrow’s problem.

Right now, he just had to survive a conversation with Draco’s ex-almost-fiancée.


	9. Chapter 9

This, Draco knew, was a terrible idea. Yes, he wanted Harry to meet Shira, but only under favourable conditions, and only when she was surrounded by her family. Draco felt confident that Harry would understand, once he met the Baumgartens en masse.

It seemed an even worse idea when Shira informed him, agog with curiousity, that she would never settle for just talking to the famed Harry Potter. No, she insisted on seeing him, so they had best set up a video conference on muggle computers.

So he and the holy scarhead dragged out the muggle laptop again. Fortunately—or unfortunately, rather—Harry did have both a webcam and internet access, and both worked despite the magic at use in the house. Damn all these new spells and wards that were making it easier and easier to use muggle technology.

Worse, Harry paid for said technology with muggle money. He had a legal muggle identity, after all, and apparently a muggle bank account for such things, fed by the wizarding fortune his parents left him. Which meant that he was forever at the mercy of Gringotts’ exchange rates. Draco would have to teach him a better way to manage his finances.

Soon Harry was sitting at the dining room table, connecting to Shira. Draco didn’t bother to warn Harry what to expect—he’d find out soon enough. The restrained goth style of that one photograph simply did not do her justice.

A moment later Shira was in view, visible from her corset-cinched waist up to the tip of her elaborately coiffed hair. Draco had the pleasure of watching Harry’s mouth drop open as he took in a Victorian Goth in all her splendor. Shira might be too skinny by half and even paler than Draco, but she did have style.

“Mr. Potter, what an honour.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Dare I ask what you are doing with Draco at—what time is it there? Two-thirty in the morning? Is his virtue safe with you?”

Harry managed a strangled laugh. “Uh, no, not really. Draco is, um—this is going to take a while to explain.”

“Wait!” That was a different voice. Suddenly Jamie, Shira’s significant other, popped into view. She was also a Victorian Goth, albeit a more cheerful-looking and far bustier one than Shira. Shira’s corset was almost just for show; Jamie’s actually had something ample to support.

“Hello,” Harry said as Jamie dragged a chair over and took a seat next to Shira. “I’m Harry.”

Jamie snorted. “I know. I’m Jamie Yarleque, from an impeccable line of Peruvian wizards. Until you get to me, that is.” She paused to sigh dramatically. “I’m a squib—can’t do a drop of magic. Just thought I’d get that out of the way.”

Harry let out a noise that was halfway between a chuckle and a cough. “Oh, um, that’s not a problem. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with—I mean, it’s not even my business!”

“Aw, that’s sweet of you to say.” Jamie favoured him with a wide smile before turning to Shira. “I like him.”

Shira turned and gave the webcam a pointed look. “I think Draco likes him too.”

Draco had been hovering in the background, but he put himself deliberately in view by standing behind Harry and encircling him in his arms. “I dunno. Potter’s grown on me, I suppose.”

“Grown on you?” Jamie shook her head. “Don’t listen to him, Harry,” she ordered—and it did sound rather like an order. “We heard all about you while Draco was living here.”

Shira cut in with a regrettably brilliant impersonation of Draco. “Saint Bleeding Potter. All right, he saved us all, I’ll give him that. And he’s fucking gorgeous—but just tell me it hasn’t gone straight to his head, what with all the crowds following him around just begging to lick those atrocious trainers of his—”

Harry burst out laughing. “Nothing new from him, then, except for the compliments.”

“I always thought you were projecting a bit.” Shira raised her eyebrows at Draco. “Maybe you’re the one who wants to be licking—”

Jamie elbowed her. Hard, from the looks of it.

Shira made a face, but she obligingly turned the subject. “All right, all right! How did you two end up together? Draco never said there was any contact between you. Not after his trial, anyway.”

Harry blushed, but managed to fill her in without halting and stumbling over his words. Well, not too much.

Draco watched Shira the whole time. She seemed angry with 'this Robards guy,’ as she called him, impressed with Draco's undercover work, grateful to Harry . . . and not in the least bit jealous of Draco's new relationship with him.

“So this life debt.” Shira was looking straight at Draco now. “You're both serious about it?”

“Very,” Draco answered.

She smiled broadly. “See! I knew there was a reason we get on so well.”

Draco swallowed, and tried to tell her, with his eyes, to shut up.

Harry, meanwhile, just looked puzzled. “Why is that?”

“We're both subs.”

Jamie gave her a fond smile as she fingered the black silk choker around Shira's neck. “This isn't just for show,” she explained. “Shira's mine.”

Draco bit back a sigh of frustration. “I'm not a submissive. Serving a life debt is a completely different—”

“Oh, please.” Shira shook her head as she turned back to Harry. “It took me forever to get Jamie's permission for Draco and I to even consider an arranged marriage. She hates the whole pure-blood thing—”

“Yeah. As  it turns out, it sucks to be a pure-blood when you’re a squib,” Jamie explained. “No one’s begging to arrange a marriage with me.”

Shira nodded. “It’s really insulting. So she’s not highly motivated to support a traditional pure-blood marriage.”

“Ah, but you are?” Harry asked.

“Well,” Shira said, “It would make my mother happy. She only has two daughters, and the other one married a no-maj. Muggle, I mean. Not that she doesn’t love Benjamin; she adores him. But she’s determined to see me marry a wizard. But she knows said wizard has to accept Jamie and not be jealous. And my mother doesn’t care about bloodlines, but my father does. So it’s better if said wizard is a pure-blood. Jewish too, of course.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Wouldn’t that rule out Draco? The Jewish part, I mean.”

Draco sighed as he kissed Harry’s cheek. “There’s such a thing as conversion, you know.”

“As long as Draco’s not unduly attached to his foreskin,” Jamie said dryly.

Harry blanched.

“So the idea is for me to produce Jewish, pure-blood children who will grow up to be outstanding wizards.” Shira paused to give Draco a judicious look. “And you must admit that Draco will make beautiful babies.”

Now Harry was giving him a judicious look.

Draco gave him a challenging one in return, daring him to disagree.

Harry turned back to Shira. “You’re right. He probably will.”

“But you’re not going to get a baby with his platinum blond hair, Shira,” Jamie pointed out. “Not with your dark hair.”

“We don’t know that for sure! Besides, certain spells—”

“You can’t use a spell on a baby to change its hair colour!” Jamie was clearly outraged.

“Or to screw with its genetics,” Draco muttered.

“Anyway,” Shira continued, ignoring the controversy she had just kicked up, “I almost wish we had just made a baby while he was here, without bothering with marriage. But both our families would have lost their minds.”

“And she still needs her family’s financial support, so she can’t push them too far,” Jamie put in.

“I imagine there’d be some custody issues to sort out too.” Harry still sounded as if he were trying to stifle a laugh.

Shira shrugged. “I don’t think we’d fight about that, but proximity was always going to be an issue. If we go through with the marriage, Jamie and I will have to move to London, or you two will have to move to Hoboken.”

“Er, look,” Harry said, “About the marriage . . . .”

“You’re going to be tiresome about it too, aren’t you?" Shira winked at him. "I think you and Jamie are going to get along really well.”

“Not tiresome,” Harry answered with a shrug. “I'm just not going to permit it.”

Jamie bit her lip in a thoughtful sort of way. “I think I'm on your side, Harry, but we should all discuss it. In person. Would you agree to that?”

Draco assumed he would refuse. From Harry’s point of view, what was there to discuss?

But Harry surprised him. “All right. I think we should meet.”

“Good. No reason Shira and I can't fly into Heathrow next week.”

“Next week!” Shira looked outraged. “I have potions that are in the middle of a month long brewing cycle—”

But Jamie waved that objection aside. “Your brothers will look after them. Harry, where should we stay to be conveniently close to your place? I don't like hostels, so a real hotel would be best. A no-maj one—I mean muggle one—is fine.”

“Right,” Shira scoffed. “Because we so blend.”

Harry didn’t bother to bite back his laugh this time. “Uh, I don't think muggle London will be shocked at the sight of two goths.”

“Exactly,” Jamie agreed. “So where do you suggest?”

For a moment, Draco clung to a forlorn hope that Harry would make some kind of excuse. But the idiot was grinning in anticipation.

“Stay at mine.” Harry ignored the fact that Draco’s fingers were now digging into his arms. “A week will give us enough time to make the upstairs suitable; you can have your own suite of rooms.”

“Perfect!” Jamie continued to ignore Shira's objections as she and Harry exchanged information. After a promise to contact him with flight details, she signed off.

A few minutes later, the laptop was safely stowed away again. Draco shut his mouth as he and Harry climbed the first flight of the elaborate and rather gruesome staircase. And he kept it shut as they entered the sitting room.

Harry sighed as he collapsed on the chesterfield. “You're not happy.”

Draco remained standing, struggling to form a response. He wasn't unhappy. He wasn't furious. He was more . . . bewildered. “I'm—do you know what you're doing?”

Harry hesitated. “Not exactly. I'm sort of playing this by ear.”

Draco scoffed. “Of course you are. Why not wreck my life on a whim?”

“Would marrying me wreck your life?”

The words were soft and disturbingly earnest. Draco felt his jaw drop.

“Okay.” Harry blushed, but managed a small smile as well. “That wasn't a proposal. Not yet. But you're willing to marry Shira, and you're not—um, you're only friends, right? It would be like me marrying Hermione.”

Draco just stared for a moment, but finally shook himself into answering. “Yes, sort of. But Shira—look, I'm not as close to anyone as you are to Granger. And Weasley.”

Harry shrugged. “But you know what I mean. If you could marry Shira and be happy, why can't you see us being happy together? If it's that you want kids, well, don't worry. I want some too.”

“My parents would never accept adopted children or children by a surrogate.”

“Draco, you don’t have to live your life to please your parents!” Harry gave him a look that was half exasperated and half affectionate. “I’m sorry if they’re stupid enough to reject their own grandchildren, but . . . you’re supposed to be serving a life debt to me, yeah? And I only care how you would feel about children by adoption or surrogacy.”

“I—Potter, I have no idea.”

“Okay.” Harry took a deep breath. “That's fair. But at least tell me this: do you want us to work out? Do you want to be with me long-term?”

“Yes.” The affirmation was out of Draco's mouth before he had even given it a conscious thought. He fought not to look embarrassed as he realised what he said. “Of course I do. You think I'd say no to the holy saviour?”

Harry grinned. “What does that mean? You just want to shag the chosen one?”

“No.” Draco rolled his eyes, making it clear that he shouldn't have to state something so obvious. “I want to serve him too. And stay with him for as long as he’ll have me.”

“And, um—is marriage eventually in the picture?”

Fuck, how was he supposed to answer that? Half of him wanted to leap at the chance, but the other half knew better.

Draco settled on an obvious response. “It would be unofficial. You know that, don’t you? Not even muggles recognise gay marriage.”

“Or even a partnership,” Harry agreed. “Not yet. But we could still marry unofficially, in front of the people who matter to us.”

“The people who matter to you will tell you not to marry me!”

“They'll come around. But forget about them for now. Is it what you want? Marriage, commitment?

Draco swallowed. “I want you, Potter. And I reckon you’ll talk me into any label that pleases you.”

He grinned stupidly at that, the sap.

Draco was grinning back—hopefully not as stupidly—as he crossed over to Harry and knelt between his knees. His hands stayed steady as he started to undo the button and zipper of Harry's jeans.

“Draco, we—”

“Shhh.” Draco licked his lips in anticipation. “You've made it clear to everyone that you won't allow your humble servant here to enter an arranged marriage.”

“Yeah, but it's not settled—”

“Enough, Potter!” Draco gave him a look. “You got what you wanted. Now lean back and let me show you what a good servant I can be.”

 

->*<-

 

Harry stretched out on his bed, satiated and almost giddily happy. Draco was next to him—curled up, relaxed, and calm—with that white-blond hair of his messier than Harry had ever seen it. That was possibly because Harry had grabbed hold of it, tight, while Draco was blowing him.

“I still think you ought to let me return the favour.” Harry reached out and smoothed his hair, because anything that messy looked wrong on a Malfoy.

Draco gave him a sleepy smile. “No, I don’t feel like training up your virginal tongue tonight.”

Harry gave him a playful shove in return. “So sorry I don’t have your vast experience.”

“I’m not. At least you won’t have any improper techniques to unlearn.”

“And who trained you up? Someone you were with for a while, or some random bloke?”

Draco arched his brows. “Which are you hoping for?”

“Dunno,” Harry admitted. “But I’ll try not to be jealous of any former boyfriends of yours.”

“Hmmm.” Draco yawned and shut his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll tell you sometime.”

Harry was tempted to order him to tell him now, but Draco was already half asleep. So he closed his eyes as well, and allowed himself to drift off . . . only to wake up an hour later, shivering.

Draco had cocooned himself in all the blankets. Of course he had. So Harry took a pillow and smacked him with it.

“Umph! What the—”

“Care to share, Malfoy?” Harry gave the blankets a tug.

But Draco didn’t give them up. He tugged back instead, sparking a wrestling match that Harry won easily. It took all of thirty seconds to pin the git to the bed.

That was worth a triumphant grin. “You never could fight without magic.”

Draco scowled. “Because I wasn’t raised as an ill-bred muggle, taught to use fists instead of a wand.”

“You could learn a thing or two from muggles, ill-bred or not.” Harry leaned down and kissed him. “No more stealing covers.”

“I didn’t do it consciously, Potter,” Draco drawled, “but I’ll try to refrain.”

“How considerate of you.”

“Well, we both need a decent night’s rest, what with Weasley and Granger arriving first thing in the morning.”

Harry murmured an agreement as he climbed off of Draco and slid under the covers with him. At least Draco sounded more resigned than annoyed at the thought of seeing Ron and Hermione so soon. That, Harry supposed, was progress.

He closed his eyes as he snuggled next to Draco, trying not to worry about telling those two all his news. They weren’t likely to react well.

No, that wasn't fair. They wouldn't be upset about him being bisexual. Surprised, maybe, but not upset. But he would have to tell them that he and Malfoy were together. He would keep that secret from the press, but not from his closest friends.

For the first time, Harry forced himself to ask why he had fallen for Malfoy, of all people. He was going to have to explain it to Ron and Hermione, so he might as well practise on himself.

They had been obsessed with each other during their years at Hogwarts, getting under each other's skin in all the wrong ways. God, how Harry had hated him. But only until sixth year. Granted, he still despised him after that. Sometimes. Mostly he pitied him.

But when did he start liking him?

It had started a while back, just before Draco’s trial. But it had really—what was the word he wanted?—blossomed, maybe. Yeah, that worked. It had really blossomed the other night.

Harry could tell, as they laid together on the floor of the sitting room—exhausted and bruised and bleeding—that Draco had changed even more since the war. He was still a snarky, bratty, snob. But he had largely shed his prejudices, and his cruelty, and that made all the difference.

Hopefully Ron and Hermione would see the difference too.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry woke up in stages. The first time he had a vague impression of Draco kissing him lightly and then whinging about Grimmauld Place needing more help than he and Kreacher could provide. It was far too early for a conversation about that, so Harry just rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.

He woke up the second time because of an apologetic little tap on his shoulder. This time Harry sat straight up, wide-eyed, and grabbed for his wand.

But he needn’t have bothered. A house-elf stood trembling next to his bed, and it did not seem to have any nefarious designs on him. Everything was blurry without his glasses, but Harry was fairly certain he hadn’t seen this one before.

“I’m sorry Master,” it said in a high-pitched, squeaky little voice. “Master Draco says if you are wishing to arrive at your office on time, you must be getting up.”

Harry put the wand down, rubbed his eyes, and glanced at the other side of the bed. Empty. Apparently ‘Master Draco’ was already up and about, so he turned back to the elf. “Uh, have we met?”

She—Harry was pretty sure it was a she—performed a clumsy little curtsy. “Toffee at your service.”

“Hello, Toffee.” He reached for his glasses. “So, ah, who are you, exactly?” He wanted to ask what she was doing in his house, but Draco must be to blame for that.

She curtsied again. “I was presented to Master Draco on the occasion of his seventeenth birthday.” She seemed proud of that fact. “Now Master Draco is explaining about the life debt, and how everything that belongs to Master Draco now belongs to Harry Potter. So now I am serving here.”

“Oh. Um, all right.” He swallowed as a feeling of dread curled into his stomach. “Is Kreacher aware of this arrangement?”

“Oh yes. Master Draco explained to Kreacher how Toffee will be assisting with the renovations. And Master Draco is saying to me, in private, to always pretend that Kreacher is in charge.”

Relief washed over Harry. “I reckon that’ll work. But do you want to be here, Toffee?”

She looked shocked by the question. “Of course! It’s an honour to be serving Harry Potter, who saved the life of my Master Draco.”

“Er, thanks, but—” Shit. What were the chances that Draco had consulted Toffee about her wishes before summoning her to Grimmauld Place? “Would you rather be back at Malfoy Manor? Or somewhere else?”

Her mouth fell open and her eyes teared up. “Is Master not wanting my services?”

“No! I mean, yes.” Damn Draco for putting him into this position. Now Harry would have to face Hermione and try to explain how he suddenly owned a second house elf, who probably didn’t want her freedom any more than Kreacher wanted his.

Toffee, meanwhile, was staring up at him, tears still welling up in her eyes and a thoroughly confused look on her face.

“Look, Draco’s right,” Harry tried to make his voice sound soothing. “We can use all the help we can get. I just want to make sure you’re happy here, that’s all.”

The tears vanished, replaced by a shrewd look. “I wish to serve here. There be many elves at Malfoy Manor—here, Toffee will shine!”

Harry stared at her and then, despite everything, bit back a grin. Apparently Toffee liked attention and praise as much as Draco did.

“All right.” Harry settled back down under the covers. “Tell Draco I’ll be up in ten minutes. Fifteen at most—”

“Pardon, but Master Draco says if Master won’t get up for the sake of his job, then Master must be reminded that Mr. and Mrs. Ron Weasley are to be arriving.”

Harry cringed. “Right. Okay, I’m getting up.” He suited his actions to his words as he climbed out of bed and strode toward his wardrobe; might as well pick out his clothes before he treated himself to a shower. But he froze after just two steps—his wardrobe had vanished. The entire piece of furniture was missing.

“Toffee?”

“Yes Master?”

“What did Draco do with my wardrobe?”

“He banished it, Master, to a spare room downstairs. Master Draco laid out Master’s clothes first.”

She pointed to a chair. Harry folded his arms over his chest, intending to find fault with whatever outfit Draco had chosen. But although Harry would never have paired that shirt with that blazer—and wouldn’t have matched either to those trousers—he couldn’t object to the overall effect. They all worked rather well together, actually. And his robes would suit them perfectly . . . .

But that wasn’t the point. “Tell him to un-banish it, please.”

“If Master wishes.” She hesitated. “But Master Draco and Kreacher are deciding which half of your clothing they might keep, and which half must be given to . . .” she paused as she furrowed her brow, apparently trying to remember the name.

Harry felt a flutter of panic in his chest. “Given? Given to whom?!”

“Oxfam!” Toffee uttered the word proudly. “That is the person Master Draco is naming: A Mister Oxfam.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he knew his mouth was set in a hard line.

“Er, should I still be telling Master Draco—”

But ‘Master Draco’ chose that moment to stroll into the bedroom. “Oh good,” he said. “You’re finally up. Are you planning to shower or just scourgify yourself—“

“You are not sending half my clothes to Oxfam.”

Draco had the cheek to grin at that. “Oh, it’ll only be a quarter of them, I reckon. More of them are bearable than I anticipated. But really, Harry, where do you shop for your muggle outfits?”

Harry was dying to make some comeback about Draco thinking he could do better—but he realised how stupid that would be and stopped himself. When it came to fashion, Draco clearly could do better.

Instead Harry turned back to Toffee. “Would you go and help Kreacher, please? He might need a hand with breakfast.”

Draco arched his eyebrows as the elf left the room. “Are you looking to reprimand me in private?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t bother sending her off next time. She’ll only eavesdrop anyway—they all do.”

Harry felt another irrational urge to contradict him, but he had enough experience with house elves to know that there was at least a little truth in his words. “That doesn’t bother you?”

He shrugged. “Not particularly. Now, what have I done to rile you up?”

“Well, let’s start with bringing a house elf over without my permission or even giving me any warning—”

“I warned you this morning. You know, the first time I tried waking you up.”

“You didn’t tell me you were summoning a house elf here! You just whinged about the house being too much work for you and Kreacher—”

“I was not whinging!”

Harry gave him a look.

“I was possibly kvetching,” Draco explained, as if he were making a concession, “but definitely not whinging.”

All right. Harry couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Kvetching? We’re using Yiddish now?”

Draco’s lips twitched. “I’ll have you know that my Yiddish vocabulary is quite impressive.”

“Picked it up from Shira and her family, did you?”

“Might have done.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll bite. How is kvetching different from whinging?”

“It’s the tone, to begin with.” Somehow Draco managed to keep his face straight.

“It is not!” Harry was laughing outright now. “They’re the same thing. Whinging, kvetching—whining too. And you’re still just a whiny brat, aren’t you?”

“And you’re still stupidly easy to rile up,” Draco retorted. But he was smiling too now, and he kept smiling as he walked up to Harry and gave him another light kiss. “Resign yourself to Toffee, please. You’re a bleeding heart when it comes to house elves, aren’t you?”

“Mostly I’m a bleeding heart when it comes to whiny brats.”

“Oh, she falls under that category too. We can’t leave her at the manor—my parents have no patience for her. She’s rather high maintenance, you see.”

“Is she?” Harry kissed him back. “Can’t think who that reminds me of.”

Draco ignored that. “This house is in horrific condition. Here’s fair warning for you: I plan to borrow more house elves from the Manor periodically.”

Harry sighed. “I don’t suppose we’ll be paying them a fair wage and allowing them holidays?”

“I don’t suppose they’d take it.”

“Hermione’s going to say it’s slave labour. How am I going to explain this to her?”

“No idea. I’m filing that one under Potter’s Problems.” He kissed Harry once more, took him by the shoulders, and then turned his body toward the bathroom. “Now get ready—Granger and Weasley will be here any moment.”

Harry didn’t bother to fight him. He knew he wouldn’t fight him over the clothes either; it was easier (and probably more effective in the long run) to just let Draco play the part of his personal shopper and valet combined. But he sighed a little as he grabbed a towel. He was still the one in charge, he told himself. He was just learning to pick his battles.

 

->*<-

 

“It's been what, two days?” Ron stared at Harry, outraged. “How could this happen in just two days?”

Harry didn't seem to know how to respond, but he was clutching Malfoy's hand. And Malfoy was just standing there, sneering—as if a Weasley’s opinion about their relationship couldn't possibly matter. But he was clutching Harry's hand back, so he wasn't as calm and contemptuous as he was pretending to be.

They were standing in Harry’s sitting room, all four of them. Harry had greeted Ron and Hermione just like this, holding the ferret’s hand, before launching into a speech about how he and Draco were together now.

Ron should have known. As soon as he saw that weird flirting between them back at Hermione's office, he should have known.

Anyway, even without the hand-holding, the truth was obvious now. Draco must have dressed Harry, for Merlin’s sake. Ron couldn’t explain exactly what was different about his clothes, but Harry had never looked so effortlessly stylish on his own.

“So what does this mean?” Ron demanded. “Are you going to turn up at the Burrow with him in tow?”

Hermione coughed before anyone could respond. “Excuse me.” She placed a hand over her chest and paused for a breath—not that she was fooling anyone. “Draco, I'd like to discuss the information on the flash drive with you. Shall we go down to the dining room and look it over?”

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow at Harry, who nodded back.

That was good, Ron supposed. Maybe Malfoy wouldn't even take a piss now without Harry's permission.

But he didn’t like the chivalrous way Malfoy offered Hermione his arm. Or the way Hermione took it, rolling her eyes but smiling at the same time.

Ron shook his head as they left the room. “Does he think he's her gay bestie now?”

“Not sure,” Harry shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Is the position open?”

Ron snorted. “Probably. Apparently you should claim it, though.”

“No.” Harry grinned. “Draco has more flair.”

“Yeah, that's one way to put it.” He choked out a half-laugh before turning serious again. “Harry, what are you thinking?”

“Look, Ron—” He broke off and took a deep breath, as if he were about to face a dementor’s kiss instead of his best mate. “Even if Draco and I weren't together, he'd be around, you know?”

“Because of the life debt.”

“Yeah.” Harry swallowed. “I knew a life debt was a real thing—Dumbledore said as much back in third year. But I didn't know it was so formal—”

“I bet only old-school pure-bloods treat it that way.” Ron folded his arms as he took a seat on the arm of the little couch. “And you don't have to let him live here. Lots of ways he can serve you without being in your face all the time.”

“But I want him here.”

“Yeah, I got that. And, actually I'm okay with it, as long as you promise to treat him like a house elf.”

Harry gave him a level look. “But you're not fine with him being my boyfriend too.”

“Look, I’m fine with the idea of you having a boyfriend, okay? I don’t care that you’re bent. Or a little bent. Or . . . I mean, not that you need my approval—”

“I know you’re fine with me being bisexual.”

Ron nodded, feeling relieved to have a specific label. “I’m a bit surprised, but it’s fine.”

“But you’re not fine with me and Draco as a couple.”

“Is that even real?”

Now Harry looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno, Harry. Malfoy is using you—he wasn't even secretive about that. I witnessed him making all those demands before he agreed to pay off his debt, remember?”

“Yeah. But I told him that he could forget about the life debt. That I'd still help him and his family. He didn't want to forget it.”

“But maybe he's shagging you just to make himself look good. You know, maybe it will help his public image to be dating the chosen one.”

To Ron’s surprise, Harry grinned again. “He's welcome to use me for that, but right now all the Malfoys want to keep our relationship out of the papers.”

“Why? Are his parents homophobes on top of everything else?”

“No. I'd better explain.”

Ron sat in silence as Harry paced the room, filling him in on Draco's almost-arranged marriage into the Baumgarten family and the fact that Harry had forbidden it.

“Um, you sure this is a good idea, mate?” Ron tried to keep his voice even. “I mean, what if Malfoy really wants to marry this Shira person?”

“They're not madly in love or anything, Ron. She's got a girlfriend. And Draco's got me.”

“Yeah, but, if they're both used to the idea of an arranged marriage, maybe it doesn't seem so bad to them.”

Harry stopped pacing and stared at him. “Are you seriously defending a pure-blood tradition? That's all this arranged marriage is about: keeping up 'pure’ bloodlines.”

Ron thought about it and then shrugged. He honestly didn’t care how Malfoy felt about the almost-marriage. The ferret had freely given Harry the right to run his life. End of subject.

“All right,” Ron said. “But if you and Malfoy are really together, you're going to have to bring him to the Burrow. You’re still family, you know, so you can’t hide him from us.”

Harry nodded. “I know. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know how my parents will react. Ginny won’t like it either. And Bill—he might forgive Malfoy for letting Greyback into Hogwarts, but Fleur never will.”

“Draco didn’t know that Greyback—”

Ron gave him a look.

“Right.” Harry paused to run his fingers through his hair. “Ron, will you accept him?”

“As your boyfriend? Not as though I have a choice.”

“No, I mean . . . will you give him a chance?”

It was official now: Harry had gone mental. “You know what he said about Hermione back in school. And he poisoned me once. Almost killed me. You remember that too, yeah?”

“The poison was meant for Dumbledore—”

“Oh, good thing. That makes it so much better.”

“—and he didn't really want to harm him either.”

Ron gave him another look.

Harry seemed to deflate. “I know I'm asking a lot. I don't expect you two to become friends, but . . . he has changed, Ron. He doesn't believe in the pure-blood propaganda anymore. And he was never a killer. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Ron shook his head, partly in resignation but partly in disbelief. “But not being a killer? That’s a pretty low bar to set for a boyfriend.”


	11. Chapter 11

“What did you make of this, Granger?”

Draco’s eyes, Hermione noticed, were set resolutely on the screen. He was keen to keep the conversation focused on the flash drive.

They were seated next to each other at the dining room table, with the scent of baking dough and fresh onions wafting up from the kitchen—some sort of onion bread must be on the menu for breakfast at Grimmauld Place.

Hermione focused her attention on the laptop. She was seated directly in front of it; Draco, meanwhile, was leaning sidelong toward the screen.

“I can see that these neo-Death Eaters intend to manipulate our currency, but I don’t think I understand their plans as well as you do. I’ve never properly studied finances, and this requires a sound knowledge of both Gringotts and muggle banking—”

He scoffed. “There won’t be an exam, so don't worry. No need to prove you’re better than me this time.”

“But that was never my motivation—” she broke off and bit her lip. She couldn’t read Draco at all right now.

But then he turned to her and grinned. “I know. But there’s a part of me that still resents coming in second to your marks.”

She lowered her voice. “Because I’m muggle-born?”

“No. I’m over that, at least.” He paused to shake his head. “But that burned at the time. Not as much as the fact that you were friends with Harry, though—I was most jealous of that.”

She smiled. “I’ve never heard you call him ‘Harry’ before.”

“Yeah, well.” A little red crept into his face as he shrugged and stared at the screen again.

“Draco . . .” Hermione let her voice trail off as she contemplated the best way to address the elephant in the room. “I’m not trying to interfere in your business. Or Harry’s. But I need you to answer one question.”

“Granger—”

“Hear me out.” She swallowed. “Because you both acknowledge this life debt, Harry has considerable power over you. He wouldn’t purposely abuse it—”

“Oh no?” Draco snorted. “He loves having power over me. You think he’s above getting a little revenge?”

She felt her own face heat up. “Then this is an even more important question. Is Harry pressuring you to sleep with him? Even unintentionally? I mean, you’re not just going along with what you think he wants—”

“No!” He still wasn't looking at her, and his face was bright red now. “Sweet Salazar, I’ve wanted him for years.”

“Good. I mean . . . I just don't want him to take advantage—”

“Granger—” Draco broke off as he shook his head in frustration. Then he finally looked her in the eye. “If Potter ever becomes a proper tyrant, he knows he'll have you to answer to.”

“Only if you tell me!”

He stared at her. “When have you known me to suffer in silence?”

Hermione stared back and then found herself smiling again—something she seemed to be doing more and more often in Draco’s presence. But she had an excuse this time: she could remember him shamming and exaggerating various injuries at Hogwarts.

“True,” she said. “Except that you did learn to suffer in silence, from our sixth year until the end of the war.” She paused. “ At least some of the time.”

“Yes, well, living with the Dark Lord does rather teach you to keep your kvetching to a minimum.”

She considered that. “Point taken. But—”

“I’m perfectly capable of kvetching now, Granger. And whinging and whining—just ask my lord and master up there.” He nodded his head toward the staircase that led to the first floor.

“Don't worry, I believe you.”

Draco nodded. “I’m also aware that . . . that, uh, I don’t even deserve your concern—”

She placed a hand on his arm to stop him. She wasn’t ready for that conversation. “What will you two tell the press? About your relationship, I mean.”

He looked grateful for the change of subject. Hermione had to suppress a sudden and ludicrous urge to giggle. That would be beneath her, but gratitude seemed so alien to him. He really must have changed.

“We’d like to keep that quiet for now,” he answered. “I don't mind them knowing about the life debt, though. What did you tell that reporter, by the way?”

“Oh, we parroted what you told us: that this is an agreement between two consenting adults. That there’s nothing legally or magically binding about it.” She paused. “We said it was all very friendly and respectful, on both your parts.”

There it was again—that look of gratitude. “Thank you.”

Hermione shifted back toward the laptop, but somehow she couldn't let it go at that. The injustice of it galled her too much; there was no reason for Draco to pledge his service to Harry for the rest of their lives. Especially if they were dating—didn’t Harry want a relationship between equals?

“I still think this is a terrible idea, Draco.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Harry dating me?”

Hermione refused to rise to that bait. “You know that's not what I meant. This is about the life debt.”

“Consenting adults, Granger.” He paused. “But tell the truth: are you upset that he’s dating me?”

His tone was casual. Flippant, even. But his eyes were serious.

She chewed on her response. “I don’t know. I want Harry to be happy, but—”

“But you don’t see him finding happiness with a former Death Eater?” Draco didn’t bother to hide the bite in his tone.

“Don’t put words into my mouth.” Hermione was exasperated now. “And, please, stop with the self-loathing.”

He stared at her, but then had the grace to look chagrined. Amused also, but still chagrined. “I’ll attempt to tone it down.”

“Good. Draco, I think you and Harry might work, though I don't think either of you should allow this inequality between you. But apart from that—perhaps you two coming together will help . . . I don’t know. Help heal the past, if that makes sense? Show that the past can be overcome?"

Draco was still staring at her, but now his eyes looked both startled and oddly gentle. He nodded slowly, as if it did make sense to him. But then he shook himself and pointed toward the laptop. “You’ll be due at the ministry soon—shall we get back to work?”

There was much more to say between them, but Hermione still couldn’t face that yet. So she peered at the screen instead, determined to learn more about arbitrage and how to manipulate galleons and knuts.

 

->*<-

  
Draco was spared the torture of breakfasting with the Golden Trio—and the torture of figuring out what to say to Weasley. Even if he abjectly apologised to the man, he wouldn’t want to hear it. Draco respected that; words carried little weight.

Thankfully, by the time Draco and Granger shut down the laptop the trio were almost late for their ministry jobs.

Kreacher was on hand to give them each a bag with an onion bagel packed inside, prepared to taste. Apparently Granger preferred a prim amount of butter, Weasley liked his over-stuffed with traditional ‘lox and schmear,’ whilst Harry took egg and cheese.

Granger, Draco noticed, did not harp on slave labour or freeing house elves in front of Kreacher; she thanked him politely instead. Just as well. The idea of freeing house elves was ludicrous enough without forcing it on a traditionalist like Kreacher.

Draco and Kreacher both saw the trio to the door. Granger surprised Draco with a tentative half-hug on her way out. But he was so shocked that he made an awkward job of returning it, causing Weasley to snigger. Draco ignored that and turned to Harry, who gave him a proper kiss.

Well, almost a proper kiss. It didn’t last near long enough.

Draco turned back to Kreacher as he shut the door. “Where’s Toffee?”

The house elf sniffed. “Toffee be not ready for serving the likes of Mrs. Granger-Weasley.”

“Ah.” Draco nodded. “Yes, our master thinks Granger’ll make a fuss over more slave labour here. But she’ll find out about Toffee sooner or later.”

Kreacher muttered something that suggested he would like her to find out only much later, if at all. Draco grinned in sympathy and turned the subject.

“Let’s finish going through Harry’s clothes and do something with that wardrobe—are you particularly attached to it?” He walked up the gruesome staircase and toward the spare first-floor bedroom as he spoke, which is where they had stashed said wardrobe.

The old house elf trailed after him. “It did not belong to Kreacher’s late Mistress, whose taste was all elegance—”

“Yes, yes. I suppose that means you don’t care about it? Good. I think it’s salvageable, though. I’d as soon paint it if you don’t think that’s a crime . . . .”

They spent the next half hour discussing the furniture in Harry’s room while they sorted the rest of his clothes. Kreacher mostly agreed on what to consign to the burn pile, although Draco stopped him from actually putting any of it in the fireplace.

“You know our master,” he chided the elf. “I’m bringing these things to a charity shop, remember?”

At length, Toffee turned up with an onion bagel for Draco, just the way he liked it: lightly toasted with lox and capers, hold the schmear. He washed it down with an excellent cup of coffee, mixed with a generous amount of milk and sugar. He had just sent her to the kitchen with the dishes when he heard the front door open.

Draco and Kreacher both stuck their heads out of the spare bedroom and peered down the first-floor hallway. Harry, Granger and Weasley were traipsing up the stairs.

“What are you lot doing back here?” Draco stepped into the hallway and kicked the door closed behind him. Draco wanted no further objections from Harry on anything unwearable. And Kreacher, no doubt, could just apparate out.

“The media swarmed us.” Harry was rolling his eyes. “Mostly reporters from the Daily Prophet—we were all advised to work from home today. And tomorrow. And probably for the rest of the week.”

“Yeah.” Weasley tossed a copy of the Prophet to Draco as he headed for the sitting room.

Draco caught it and followed the trio into the room. A picture of himself and Harry at the ministry, their clothes singed and torn from the explosion, dominated the front page. Their eyes, Draco noticed, were glued to each other as they walked into Robard’s office.

Not a bad picture, he decided. Not bad at all.

He perused the article next: _Former Death Eater Honours His Debt to the Saviour._ Not exactly subtle.

Still, the write-up was friendly and factual enough, covering Draco’s work for Robards, Harry’s daring rescue, and the fact that Harry had saved Draco’s life back during the war as well. There was an approving tone regarding the life debt, and the mutual consent—confirmed by Mr. Ronald Weasley and Mrs. Hermione Granger-Weasley—of both parties. His parents had chosen the reporter well.

He looked to Harry. “You’re not upset, are you? This isn’t half-bad.”

Harry shrugged as he collapsed into a chair. “It’s fine, I suppose. Not sure why everyone needs to know our business—”

“You’re the saviour, mate,” Ron said through a mouthful of something. Muggle crisps, judging by the colorful foil bag he’d pulled from his pocket. Draco wondered where in the ministry he had gotten hold of those.

Granger, meanwhile, was setting down her briefcase and pulling a pile of paperwork out. “I think I’ll go down to the dining room to work on this. Draco, there’s another article in there about you.”

He flashed her a look of alarm.

“Next page,” Harry said. “And don’t worry. It’s just about you registering as an animagus. And there’s, ah, another picture.”

Draco shot him a suspicious glance as he turned the page. Harry had turned bright red when he mentioned the picture. A second later, Draco understood why. It was almost sickeningly sweet. He was in ferret-form, curling up in Harry’s arms and gazing up adoringly at him. Harry was smiling down at him before looking up at some ministry employee.

“I think it’s a brilliant pic,” Weasley commented through the last of his crisps. “You really do make a good ferret, Malfoy.”

Draco refused to rise to the bait. “Potter seems to think so.”

Harry grinned. “I do. You’re adorable.”

Weasley made a retching sound, but Draco retorted with a little bow.

Harry shook his head at both of them and then turned to Granger, whose paperwork was now sprawled across the chesterfield. “Hermione, wait. I’ve got a better idea than wasting our day on filling out forms.”

“You must.” She paused to put her hands on her hips. “I notice you and Ron didn’t bring any paperwork home.”

“It’s already here. Upstairs.”

“We, um, were supposed to work on it at home.” Weasley crumpled the foil and shoved it back into his pocket. “But then Harry went and rescued Malfoy and—well, we all got a bit distracted.”

“Then never mind other ideas; you both need to work on it.” Granger sounded oddly like McGonagall.

Potter and Weasley exchanged glances.

“Or we could go say hello to Hagrid,” Harry suggested. “We haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Perfect!” Weasley was all enthusiasm. “There won’t be any reporters waiting at his hut.”

“But it’s getting toward the end of term,” Hermione reminded them. “He’ll be busy.”

Privately, Draco doubted that. That oafish half-giant rarely seemed to put much planning into his lessons or exams. It was more a matter of his students surviving whatever dangerous monster had most recently captured his fancy.

Harry seemed to dismiss Granger’s concern as well. “He’ll find time for us between classes. Besides, this is important. He’s one of the people—well, I want him to know that there’s more than a life debt between me and Draco.”

Draco felt whatever little colour he had to his face drain away. But before he could comment, Granger piped up.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Her voice was somehow gentle and pointed at the same time. “Hagrid isn’t always best at keeping secrets.”

“And he’s not going to react well to this one,” Weasley added.

Harry seemed to take their words seriously, because he turned to Draco with an apologetic smile. “I know you and Hagrid didn’t get on back at Hogwarts. But—I’m really close with him. And I want him to know how much you mean to me. I know he’s not always discreet, but . . . look, I think he’ll keep this quiet.”

This was a terrible idea, but somehow Draco managed a nod. “That’s fine. You, ah, you should tell whoever you’d like, Harry. And if it gets out—well, it gets out. My parents will survive.”

He was rewarded with a bright smile. “Good.” Harry stood up and walked over to him. “Come on, then, let’s get going. I suppose the four of us should apparate to Hogsmeade . . . .”

The four of them? Draco’s brain seemed to stop working.

Fortunately, Weasley’s brain seemed to be working just fine. “You want to bring Malfoy? Are you barking, Harry? Hagrid doesn’t want to see him.”

“Ron!” Granger glared at him.

“Well, he doesn’t!” Weasley stood his ground. “No use sugar-coating it. Remember how he made Hagrid’s life miserable, trying to get him sacked and gossiping to the Prophet? And never mind him and that vanishing closet and letting those monsters into Hogwarts—”

Somehow Draco found his voice. “Weasley’s right.” He looked straight at Harry. “I think just the three of you should go. Give Hagrid a chance to get used to this idea without me there, yeah?”

Granger sighed. “That does sound sensible.”

But Harry was having none of it. “You’ll be welcome, Draco, I promise.” He put a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Hagrid’s a grown man and a teacher. He’s not going to hold a grudge about the stupid shit you did or the stupid shit you believed as a teenager.”

“Stupid shit? I was a Death Eater, Potter!”

“You were forced to become one before you were even of age!” Harry stopped and took a deep breath. “Besides, the war’s over now. Hagrid knows that. So will you come?”

“Depends,” Draco said slowly. “Is this an order?”

Harry’s face fell. “No. But I’d really appreciate you being there.”

Fuck. This obviously meant the world to him. How was Draco supposed to say no? “Fine. I’ll come.”

Weasley snorted. “Better not turn into a ferret in his hut. Hagrid feeds them to the hippogriffs.”


	12. Chapter 12

Harry and Draco landed smoothly in Hogsmeade, in a narrow alley just behind the Three Broomsticks. Draco, however, looked disoriented—only for a second or two, but long enough for Harry to notice and bite his lip in concern.

“Sorry.” Harry squeezed his boyfriend’s arm. “Siding along isn’t much fun, is it?”

Draco shrugged. “Not as though I have much choice.”

“Right. The wards at Grimmauld Place.” How could he have forgotten? “We’ll change them so you can apparate in and out freely, I promise. Meanwhile, we should have walked outside with Ron and Hermione. You could have apparated yourself.”

Draco opened his mouth and then abruptly shut it again.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing. Let’s find Granger and Weasley, shall we? Hopefully they’re not inside.” He nodded toward the Three Broomsticks. “Madame Roserta won’t want to see my face.”

Harry nodded grimly. He hadn’t forgotten that Draco once used the imperious curse on the pub owner. “I know. But that’s not what you were going to say.”

He tried to pull away. “It’s nothing. Let’s go.”

But Harry didn’t let go of his arm. “What’s wrong? Do you just not like to apparate? It’s okay. Lots of people don’t.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, as if weighing something in his head. Finally he shrugged again. “I can’t apparate.”

“You can’t—what do you mean?”

“Am I speaking Hebrew?” he snapped. “Is there some problem with my diction?”

Harry ignored that, thinking back over the past few days. When he’d rescued Draco, when they apparated to the ministry, even when they’d apparated to and from the gate at Malfoy Manor . . . each time Draco had side-alonged.

“You can’t apparate.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “That is what I just said, yes.”

“Why didn’t you learn during our sixth year?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Potter. Possibly I was too busy doing the Dark Lord’s bidding so he wouldn’t murder me or my parents.”

“So you never passed the test?”

He took a deep breath. “I did. Seventh year.”

“So you can apparate.”

Draco seemed to chew on each word before speaking it. “I have successfully apparated in the past. But I can't any longer.”

“Really can't? Or is it just that you don’t like to? I mean, is it can’t or won't?”

“Both.”

“But—” Harry’s brain was working furiously now. “Why didn’t you practise after seventh year? You spent all that time in New York with a wizarding family!”

“And Shira’s aunt taught me to become an animagus and some wandless magic to boot. Plus I kept up my occlumency and potions, my skills in working with enchanted objects, even threw myself into muggle finances. I’m not completely useless, you know.”

He was obviously offended, but Harry didn’t care. “Can you cast a patronus?”

“A patronus? Me?” Draco snorted. “I think that charm requires a purer character than mine.”

Harry ignored that too. “You worked for Robards as a spy.”

“Yes, we’ve established that.”

“So Robards . . . he sent you out into the field without you knowing how to apparate to safety? And without you being able to send your patronus with a message or a plea for help?”

“Is that what this is about?” Draco muttered something under his breath, but Harry couldn’t make out the words. It was probably some Yiddish curse he picked up from the Baumgartens. Even without a translation, though, it conveyed his level of frustration perfectly.

“Yes.” Harry finally let go of his arm. “That’s what this is about.”

“Harry . . . .” He shook his head as his voice trailed off. “I’m sure Robards expected that I’d be able to apparate again. Eventually. I’m just—it’s not my special talent, all right? And I've got a sort of mental block about it.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been in the field!”

“He couldn’t wait!”

They were both shouting now, and both seemed to realise it at the same time. Harry looked around. Fortunately, no one else was in the alley, and they probably couldn’t be heard inside the pub.

Draco took a deep breath. “Harry, I was already tentatively attached to the neo-Death Eaters by the time I went to New York. As far as my parents knew, I was there to get to know Shira. I, er, led others to believe that I wanted to get away after the war.”

He had the grace to blush as he spoke those words; Harry had been one of the people he misled.

“But,” Draco continued, “Robards knew I was doing some minor financial work for this group.”

“So you were in the field already?” Harry’s blood was starting to boil.

“Technically, yes. But I was on a sort of probation—this group didn’t trust me yet. So they didn’t involve me in anything of consequence.” He paused. “Look, I wasn’t in danger until much later, when I was deeper in. ”

His tone was reasonable. Annoyingly reasonable, and Harry was in no mood for it. “When I see Robards—”

“You’ll get sacked if you go into his office blazing again.” Draco grinned suddenly and shook his head. “Of course, that might be just as well.”

Harry glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He reached out to smooth the collar of Harry’s shirt, those grey eyes of his soft. “It means I’d rather have my lord and master safe at home than off risking his neck on some idiot mission.”

Harry felt a curious flip in his stomach as some of his anger melted away. Apparently Draco actually worried for him. And apparently he already considered Grimmauld Place, Harry’s home, to be his home as well.

“I don’t want you sitting up at night worried, Draco. But I don’t want to get sacked either. I just want the aurors to do things differently.”

“Well, I’ve absolute faith that you’ll become head of them one day.” He didn’t look particularly happy about that, but he looked as if he meant it. “And just as much faith that Granger will get herself elected Minister for Magic.”

“You do, huh?”

“Don’t act so surprised. You’re a natural leader, Harry. And Granger is almost as competent as she is self-righteous—not to mention ambitious.”

“Ambitious?” Harry felt his eyebrows shoot up.

“I’m a Slytherin. I mean that as a compliment.” He was fixing the cuff of Harry’s blazer now. “So between the two of you, I reckon you can fix some protocols.”

“I reckon so,” Harry agreed, staring up at Draco fondly.

Draco looked over his handiwork and then nodded with satisfaction. “Come on, Potter. Let’s find the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio.”

Harry nodded, letting him have the last word as they turned and walked out of the alley together.

But Draco would have to learn how to cast the patronus charm. And re-learn how to apparate. Those spells could help any wizard out of a tight spot—and Draco was especially vulnerable. There were people who wouldn’t accept that the war was over, who still wanted revenge against anyone who had sided with Voldemort. And now there were neo-Death Eaters who knew that Draco had spied on them on behalf of the ministry.

So Harry didn’t care what was stopping Draco from casting those spells, whether it was indeed a mental block or a lack of proper training or whatever. One way or another he was going to learn them—and Harry would soon make that clear to him.

 

->*<-

 

The prospect of an afternoon with Hagrid did not fill Draco with joy. But this visit, he reminded himself, was for Harry’s sake. Harry clearly wanted him to get along with the oaf, so Draco would oblige.

Harry, obviously, did not see Hagrid’s shortcomings. And it wasn’t that he was a half-giant. Draco was making an effort to curb his prejudice as far as that went. He was less successful than Harry would like, no doubt, but still.

Draco was even willing to admit that Hagrid possessed a legitimate talent when it came to magical creatures. But that did not make the man a qualified teacher. He had no idea how to conduct a proper lesson, and he had no business introducing his students to the most dangerous monsters he could find or breed.

Hagrid had no notion of how a professor should deal with children or teenagers; perhaps that was the problem. Draco had watched him treat Harry like a friend rather than a student for years. Ditto with Granger and Weasley.

Draco hadn’t been jealous. Well, all right. He’d been a little jealous. He had hated the way Harry managed to charm all their teachers. Well, excepting Snape, of course. And even he’d cared for Harry in his own way.

But in Hagrid’s case it was egregious. A teacher wasn’t meant to be mates with his students. And he certainly wasn’t (for example) meant to show off a contraband baby dragon to them or allow them to help him cover up his possession of said contraband—which is what the Golden Trio must have done.

Draco was pretty sure Granger agreed with him on these points. Someday, when she was out of earshot of both Harry and her husband, he would have to ask her.

But none of that mattered. It ought to be easy enough to be pleasant to Hagrid. Or at least scrupulously polite. Draco was a damned good occlumentist, if he did say so himself, so disguising his thoughts from the dolt should be a breeze.

Of course, things might turn ugly. The man despised Draco—in fairness, understandably. Weasley wasn’t wrong when he named all the reasons. Hell, Hagrid had a right to turn Draco away.

In that case, Draco would retain some dignity by excusing himself from the wretched hovel. He would find out if McGonagall was willing to see him; he wanted to speak with another animagus. Failing that, well, he owed Myrtle a visit.

So he was sanguine enough as he and the Golden Trio signed their names at the gate of Hogwarts. He even managed to make small talk with Weasley as they walked across the rolling lawns, past the quidditch pitch, toward the small, cramped hut.

There were no students about, so perhaps they’d managed to come between classes. Harry knocked smartly on the door, and Draco could hear enthusiastic barking in response. A moment later Hagrid answered, his enormous frame taking up most of the doorway as his dog tried helplessly to nudge his way around him.

“Harry!” Hagrid’s face lit up. “Ah, you brought Ron and Hermione—don’t just stand there, come inside!”

He was about to step away from the doorway to make room for them when his eyes found Draco. For a moment, Hagrid just stood there staring, but then he shook his head in distaste.

“Hello.” Draco kept his voice quiet and polite.

But Hagrid had already turned back to Harry with something halfway between a laugh and a snort. “I saw the Prophet this morning. No need to drag your new servant everywhere, is there? Not that I can’t find a few chores for him. But enough talk! Come in, you three.”

He stepped aside, but Harry didn’t follow.

Draco looked to Harry, trying not to let his eyes say ‘I-told-you-so.’ But Harry didn’t notice. He was frozen on the spot, staring after Hagrid. He’d been smiling broadly a few seconds ago, when he knocked, but now that smile faltered.

Weasley and Granger, meanwhile, exchanged glances, both obviously unsure what to say. Well, Draco would have to take the initiative, then.

He gave Harry a brief, tight smile. “I’d like to go make an appointment with McGonagall, if that’s all right. I’ve a few questions for her regarding—well, you know. Animagus issues.”

Weasley nodded, looking relieved. “Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it Harry?”

But Harry and Granger both looked upset, and Harry shook his head. “Stay,” he ordered. Then he turned back to Hagrid. “Draco’s here with us, Hagrid. Shouldn’t we all come inside?”

Hagrid stepped back into the doorway, raising his bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows at Harry. “You want me to invite Malfoy in? What, so he can burn down another home of mine?”

Granger gasped. Draco just stood there stupidly—but he should have known. Of course Hagrid blamed him for the near-destruction of his hut. It might be a wretched hovel, but it was his. And there was no one else to blame; Rowle had done the deed, but Draco had smuggled him into Hogwarts.

He felt sick to his stomach, just remembering. It was the night of Dumbledore's death. The night he was supposed to kill Dumbledore. The night he watched Snape do it for him.

Now Draco knew that Snape was acting under Dumbledore's own orders; Harry had made the truth plain to everyone after the war.

But in Draco's mind, all he could see was Dumbledore struck by the killing curse, his body tumbling . . . then the wild flight through Hogwarts, Snape grabbing Draco by the collar . . . Greyback and the others flanking them . . . then the hut burning as Harry tried to stop them, tried to stop Snape . . . .

Suddenly Weasley was talking, and Draco felt his brain snap back to the present. “Look, Harry,” he was saying, “I’ll walk Malfoy up to the castle, yeah?”

“And there’s another place he don’t belong.” Hagrid folded his arms across his chest. “After what he let in there, after what he did to Dumbledore—”

“Draco didn’t kill Dumbledore.” Harry’s voice was sharp and uncompromising. “You know that. You know what really happened.”

“Come on, Ferret,” Weasley took hold of his arm.

“Wait!” Harry turned back to Hagrid. “The war’s over. The trials are over. Can’t we all just sit together for a few minutes?”

His voice was angry, but there was a note of pleading in there too.

Hagrid let out a heaving sigh. “Harry, I can’t say no to you. You know that. But this—it doesn’t feel right. Not after everything.”

“It’ll be okay, Hagrid.” Harry looked tentatively relieved now. “Come on. Let’s go in.”

But Hagrid didn’t move. Draco couldn’t tell if he was hesitant or implacable, but he knew it didn’t matter.

“I—I’m sorry, Hagrid,” he stammered, “for everything I did as a Death Eater, and for my, ah, ill-informed prejudices beforehand.”

Strange. He had only meant to be polite to Hagrid; he hadn’t rehearsed an apology. But Hagrid deserved at least this much from him. Not that the man showed any reaction.

Draco turned back to Harry. “I really do need to see McGonagall.”

“I’ll walk him to the castle,” Weasley said again. He tightened his grip on Draco’s arm and turned them both toward Hogwarts proper.

Draco didn’t resist. And Harry didn’t call after them.


	13. Chapter 13

Everything would have been all right, Hermione thought—or manageable, at least—if only Hagrid wouldn't keep on about Draco. But he ignored her quelling glances.

Well, no. Hagrid wasn’t ignoring them. He was oblivious to them.

“Harry,” he was saying as he lowered the kettle closer to the flames of the fireplace, “you’re better off without that little Malfoy git hanging about. Still his father’s son, I reckon. If he’s pretending to be your servant, it’s because he thinks there’s something in it for him.”

“Draco is not his father, Hagrid.” Hermione attempted to keep her voice soft, devoid of any reprimand.

But Hagrid just snorted. “He’s plenty like him. And he’s after something, I’ll wager.”

“He’s after the same thing he’s always been after.” Harry stared up at Hagrid, unblinking. “Protection for his family. And for himself.”

Harry’s voice was even. Hermione wished she could pretend that was a good thing, but it might have been better if Harry simply exploded. He and Hagrid would soon get over a shouting match, but this calm anger on Harry’s part was something different.

“What’s that lot need protection for?” Hagrid reached for three fragile-looking porcelain cups. “They came through the war just fine. Far better than they deserved.”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Harry beat her to it.

“The head of the aurors recruited Draco as an agent right after the war.” His voice was still frighteningly calm. “He spent the last three years spying on neo-Death Eaters.”

“Yeah, saw that in the Prophet.” Hagrid shrugged as he set the cups on the table, his rough, enormous hands surprisingly gentle. “Sounds like he did good work, I’ll give the ferret that much. But why’d he do it? Weren’t out of the goodness of his heart.”

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances. She knew he was wondering how much to reveal, but she had no answer for him.

“Mostly he was pressured and coerced,” Harry said at last.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Can't see the Auror Department getting away with that—”

“You’re wrong, Hagrid.” Harry bit his lip. “But at least it was effective. The coercion, I mean.”

Hermione caught his eye again and gave him a questioning look.

He looked a little guilty. “Ron and I meant to tell you. And Draco.”

“Tell us what?”

“We spoke with Robards this morning,” he explained. “He got us into his office and away from the press for a few minutes. Almost that whole neo-Death Eater cell is in Azkaban now, awaiting trial.”

She frowned. “Do you have charges that will stick?”

Harry nodded. “Thanks to the flash drive Draco retrieved, yes. And we can link some members to the explosion. But now that Draco’s service is public knowledge, he’s a target for the remaining members at large, and for every other Death Eater wannabe.”

Hermione had already guessed as much—and so had Draco, probably—but she still felt her face go white. No wonder Ron had left with him. He wasn’t just helping to smooth things over with Hagrid; he was acting as a bodyguard.

But she would not let that bother her. No one knew they were coming to Hogwarts, and the school was well-protected. Besides, she knew the job Ron had signed on for, and she was determined not to become too worried for him. Not after everything they had already survived.

Besides, Draco deserved their protection. But she wished more fervently now that Hagrid had just allowed him to remain with them.

A cough from Hagrid brought her mind to the present. He was blushing a little; she could tell despite that massive beard, because his nose and forehead were turning red.

“Hope he's not killed or nothing, Harry. Don’t want to see that.”

There was a sudden, dangerous glint to Harry’s eyes. “What do you want to see? What sort of punishment would you like to inflict on someone who, as a teenager, was forced to serve Voldemort and live with that monster's constant threats to him and his parents?”

Hermione stood up. “Harry, I think it's time we found Ron and Draco—”

But Hagrid had answered at the same time. “Ten in Azkaban would have done for him! Five, even. Don’t care how old he was at the time—he let monsters in here, Harry. Into Hogwarts. He tried to kill Dumbledore.”

“Draco lowered his wand!” Harry was on his feet now too, finally shouting. “He wasn't going to do it. I was there!”

“Oh, he’d have done it, even if he had to work up the nerve! You know what he is. Look what he almost had done to Buckbeak!”

Harry looked stunned.

Hermione wanted to jinx both men. Hagrid for being so stubborn about Draco, and Harry for being so willfully blind to Hagrid’s faults for all these years. He should have known how Hagrid would react. He should have known that Hagrid wouldn’t accept Draco’s age as an excuse—how could he? In many respects, Hagrid was no more mature than an average teenager. He was just like Sirius in that respect.

And of course Hagrid would see no daylight between Draco exaggerating an injury that almost caused a hippogriff to be put down and Draco trying to force himself to use the killing curse on Dumbledore. Harry knew that Hagrid valued the lives of magical animals almost as much as human lives.

Nonetheless, Harry seem flabbergasted. “Buckbeak? That’s not the same thing—” Somehow he stopped himself from finishing that sentence. He swallowed instead before continuing. “Look, I love Buckbeak. You know that. And Draco was wrong for what he almost let happen to him. Completely wrong. But Draco was only fourteen.”

“So were you.” Hagrid heaved himself down onto a bench. “And I notice you didn’t go around trying to have an innocent hippogriff murdered.”

“But—” Harry broke off again, shaking his head as he sat back down.

“But Draco is a ferret animagus,” Hermione said suddenly. “He has a special connection with ferrets. And, Hagrid, hippogriffs hunt ferrets and feed on them. They're natural enemies.”

Hagrid looked much struck by that, just as she had intended. This was something Hagrid could understand: the feral and naked fear an animal must feel for its predator.

Of course, Hermione had no idea whether her words were true. They might well be, but it was just theory. Had some part of Draco always instinctively, and perhaps subconsciously, identified with ferrets? There simply wasn’t enough research on animagi out there.

“But—but this all happened before he was an animagus,” Hagrid pointed out. “It happened even before Crouch Jr. transfigured the brat.”

“But he must always have felt that connection.” Harry was quick to follow Hermione's lead. “You don't choose your animagus form, remember. It's always just been a part of you, don’t you think?”

Hagrid’s brow furrowed. At length, his shoulders sagged and he let out a long sigh. “Suppose that’s reasonable. So to him, Buckbeak’s just a predator.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

Hermione nodded, sincerely hoping it was the truth.

“That doesn’t change all the rest.” Hagrid’s words were gruff and quiet. “I’m sorry, Harry, but— well, I can see you’re getting on with him. Or maybe you’re just being protective, him being in your service and all.” He pause as a guilty shadow passed over his face. “And I suppose Dumbledore, being how he was, would approve. But I’m not ready to welcome that twitchy little ferret here. Nor trust him either.”

Hermione felt a stab of pity as she watched Harry’s reaction. Somehow he looked hurt, apologetic and resigned all at once. And then she noticed something else in his expression: the painful decision not to confide in Hagrid.

Nothing would end the friendship between these two—Hermione knew they were too dear to each other—but she could almost feel the shift in their relationship.

When Harry finally spoke up, his voice was warm enough, if a little flat. “Hagrid,” he said, “You don’t have to like him. But Draco is, um, important to me, you know? I won’t bring him round your home again. Not unless you say it’s all right. But you’ll see us together a lot and, well, please be civil to him.”

“Can do, I suppose.” Hagrid stiffened his shoulders, as if he had sensed the shift too. “Just don’t go putting your faith in him, Harry. He’s still a selfish git, I reckon, and he’ll only hurt you in the end.”

 

->*<-

 

Ron released his hold on Malfoy’s arm, but he stuck close to him as they walked toward the castle. If Malfoy found that odd, he didn’t say so. He didn’t say anything at all.

The silence was unnerving; there wasn’t even a breeze blowing to rustle the grass. Ron finally opened his mouth. It couldn’t hurt to try for a conversation. “You handled that well. That whole—that situation with Hagrid, I mean.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I had time to rehearse most of it in my head. Wasn’t hard to see his reaction coming.”

He left off ‘for anyone but Harry,’ but Ron still grunted at the unspoken words. Then he changed the subject. “You’re serious about seeing McGonagall, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Malfoy stopped walking and turned his head toward him, eyes narrowed. “Why? Think she’ll react like Hagrid?”

Ron grabbed his arm again. “Keep moving, will you?”

Malfoy complied, but not before giving him a startled look. “Why the rush?”

“How did you survive undercover for so long?” Ron rolled his eyes. “Hogwarts is safe enough, especially since no one expected us. But we’re out in the open.”

“Ah. So there’s a credible threat on my life?”

He spoke in a drawling, bored tone—but Ron wasn’t fooled. “No specific threat, Ferret, but we’re assuming there’s a target on your back.”

That didn’t seem to make him feel better. He was still acting calm and indifferent, but he didn’t shake Ron’s hand off his arm and he even walked a little closer to him.

“Robards has made some more arrests,” Ron added at length. “That’s mostly thanks to you. So well done and all that.”

Malfoy didn’t relax, but he did manage a grim half-smile. “Thanks.”

They fell quiet.

“You could do more work for us, you know.”

“Doubt it. Potter’s right—I’m worthless as a spy now. And I’m not exactly auror material.”

“No, but Hermione thinks you’ve got a good eye for detail. And you do have a decent brain.” Ron kept his hand on Malfoy’s arm as he guided them both into the courtyard. “Ever thought about becoming an analyst? Someone’s got to sift through all the evidence and intelligence we collect.”

Malfoy didn’t answer. He seemed to be chewing on the suggestion.

Ron didn’t push him. He walked them over to a bench instead, pulling Malfoy down next to him and finally releasing his arm again. It was safe enough here. Plenty of cover—fuck, when had he become as paranoid as old Moody? Since he became an auror, apparently.

There were students all around, but none seemed to pose a threat. Some were standing in small groups, complaining about this or that class. Others were sitting solo by the fountain, pouring over their textbooks. And a few of the younger ones were cross-legged on the ground, snatching games of gobstones.

“A position would need to open,” Malfoy said at last. “And Robards would have to agree to hire me. And then Harry would have to give his permission.”

Ron snorted. “I like this obedient side of you, Ferret.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “What can I say? Potter’s preferable to the Dark Lord. And to Robards.”

“To your father too?”

Malfoy didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

“So this thing you have with Harry—the life debt, the, uh, relationship . . . all of it—it’s all real?”

“It is for me.” His voice was still drawling, but somehow it had lost that annoying, superior quality it usually held. There was even a hint of uncertainty in it, as if he were unsure of Harry’s intentions.

“It’s real for Harry too, you know.” Ron shook his head ruefully. “But if this is how he likes it—well, it’s no wonder things didn’t work out between him and my sister.”

“What do you mean?” Malfoy’s voice was sharp now. “Because he’s a bit bent?”

“No. Dunno how she would have reacted to that, at least while they were dating. I just meant . . . look, Ginny was never the subservient type.”

Malfoy favoured him with a thin, sour smile. “Keep insulting me all you like about that. You’re not going to break any bones of mine.”

Ron looked him over. “I actually didn’t mean it as an insult. I was serious before—I do like you better now.”

“Well, that’s something. I suppose it’s best not to be at each other’s throats.” He paused. “Weasley, I know I’ve never properly apologised to you and Granger—”

But Ron cut him off. “Save it. Just don’t disappoint Harry. Or Hermione.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it again. After a moment, he just nodded.

“You can apologise to my brother Bill, though,” Ron added, almost as an afterthought. “Reckon you’ll see him soon.”

“Soon?” Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Why?”

Ron grinned, enjoying his discomfort. “Well, since things went so well with Hagrid, you might as well get dinner with my family over with.”

“Your family—are you serious?”

“Yeah, Ferret, I am.”

“But . . . .” He blinked. “Why would you want to inflict me on them?”

Ron leaned back more comfortably on the bench as a gobstone squirted a losing player in the eye, letting off a foul stench. “Harry is family. Think he wouldn’t bring his boyfriend around?”

Malfoy turned to stare straight ahead. “When is this supposed to happen?”

“Soon, probably. So better pretend not to despise a poor wizarding family with more children than they can afford.”

He swore under his breath. “Those comments—that was me parroting my father. In truth, Weasley, I always envied you all those siblings. That’s partly why . . . well, being an only child has its drawbacks.”

“What were you about to say?” Ron cocked his head at him.

“Nothing.”

“Come on.” He gave Malfoy a nudge with his elbow. “That’s partly why what?”

The ferret shrugged. “There’s this girl I stayed with in the states. One of the Baumgartens—”

“Harry told me about Shira.”

Malfoy turned back to him with a look of surprise—unpleasant surprise.

“Sorry if it was supposed to be a secret. But I know your families were trying to arrange a marriage between you two. And that you didn’t really object.”

“No, I didn’t.” Malfoy stared at Ron, as if deciding how much information he was worthy of. “Partly because we’re friends and we get on well enough. But partly because she has a large family—almost as large as yours—and I wouldn’t have minded having all those, er, siblings-in-law.”

Ron wasn’t sure what to do with that confession. “Huh. I can’t picture you as part of a large clan. And I’ve heard of the Baumgartens—aren’t they a Jewish family?”

He nodded. “Yes. So?”

“Nothing, it’s just that—well, if you and Shira had kids, they’d be Jewish, right?”

“Yeah. It goes through the mother. And, anyway, I’d have had to convert to keep her family happy.”

“So, um—” Ron felt his face heat up. “Your father wouldn’t have cared that his grandchildren would be Jewish?”

Malfoy actually smiled. It was a genuine smile this time; nothing thin or sour about it. “My family is prejudiced against muggles and muggle-borns, Weasley—viciously so. But we’ve never been racists or antisemites. Don’t pin even more sins on us.”

Ron snorted. “Ah, prejudice against muggles and muggle-borns is a form of racism.”

“You know what I mean.” Malfoy paused to grunt. “Ironically, my parents always considered that sort of thing to be a muggle problem. We, as more advanced beings, don’t judge wizards by their skin colour or religion.”

“Just by how much magic flows through their veins.”

“And the veins of their ancestors—don’t forget that.”

“Right. But do you really believe that about your family?”

“That we have only pure-blood prejudices? No other racism mixed in?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Malfoy admitted—and his smile was a bit sour again. “But my parents like to believe it.”

“What about you? Are you every kind of racist?” Maybe the question was unfair, but Ron continued anyway. “I know you were friends with Blaise, but still.”

“Dunno. I suppose I’m not immune to it.” His voice sounded judicious. And surprisingly honest. “But I never hated Harry for his Anglo-Indian grandparent, if that’s what you’re asking. Or Granger for whatever amount of African heritage she has.”

Ron nodded as he stood up. “Come on, Ferret. Let’s go find McGonagall.”


	14. Chapter 14

Draco breathed in deep as his fingers ghosted through Harry’s hair. They were lying on the bed, both naked, satiated and—in Harry’s case—looking thoroughly debauched. That wild hair of his produced the most beautiful bed-head look Draco had ever seen.

Better yet, Harry was curled up in his arms, tired out by all the ‘practise’ Draco had put him through. Well, Harry had no one to blame but himself; he was the one who had wanted to give perfect head.

Draco sighed, utterly content, and pulled Harry even closer. “Salazar, I needed that blow job.”

“Hmmm,” Harry murmured, pressing his lips briefly against Draco’s bare chest.

“And I deserved it, after everything I went through today.” Draco glanced down at his lover. “Which was all your fault, of course.”

“Really?” Harry planted another kiss. “All my fault?”

“Yes, but never mind. I’m in a forgiving mood.”

Harry chuckled—but then his expression turned serious. “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

“Are you mad, Potter? It was a God-awful experience.”

“Look, I know things went badly at Hagrid’s.” Harry pushed himself up so that he was sitting. “I, um, might owe you an apology.”

“For what?” Draco sat up too and arched his eyebrows. “Dragging me to that oaf’s hut?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “Take that back,” he advised.

“Or what, Potter?”

“Testing boundaries again?”

Draco shrugged. “I’ll admit to some curiousity.”

Harry regarded him with a thoughtful look . . . a look that turned almost devious after a moment’s consideration. “Well, perhaps more time with Hagrid will help you two appreciate each other. And he did mention that he could find some chores for you. I know just what you think of manual labour—”

“What?” Draco didn’t bother to hide his outrage. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?”

Fuck. Draco couldn’t tell. He might be an expert in occlumency, but he had no equivalent skill in legilimency. Would Harry actually haul him back there and force him to do grunt work?

“Well, Draco?” Harry asked.

“You wouldn’t, Potter.” He tried to make himself sound more confident. “Even if you don’t care what you put me through, you wouldn’t do that to Hagrid. He clearly has no desire to see my face again.”

Harry stared at him for a moment longer, but then his eyes softened. “I do care what I put you through. And I am sorry. I thought . . . look, Hagrid will get to know you—how you are now, I mean.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going back to that miserable hovel of his. I apologise for calling him an oaf, but—”

“No, I won’t bring you there again.” Harry’s voice was soothing now. “And I'm not going back there either. But, you know, you’ll see each other. And he’ll start to understand—”

“Wait. What do you mean you're not going back there?”

“I'm not going anywhere you’re not welcome.”

“Harry, he has every right to despise me! And most of your friends will react the same way. You can't refuse to visit—”

“You don't get a say in this, Draco. And it's not up for discussion.”

Harry's tone closed the subject. Or would have done, had Draco respected it.

“What if I'm not welcome at the Burrow?”

“Ron and I will handle that.” Harry leaned over and brushed his lips against Draco's. “Not everyone holds what happened in the war against you. McGonagall doesn’t. You said everything went well with her—that it was a good talk.”

“Well . . . yes.”

McGonagall, to Draco’s surprise, had greeted him evenly enough. There had been no particular warmth in her eyes, but no contempt or scorn either. And she refused to let him make an appointment; he and Weasley, she said, ought to step into her office now.

Her office, it turned out, was not Dumbledore’s old one. Presumably she used that for her personal quarters but she did not wish to be so remote during the day. One had only to step inside from the courtyard to reach her.

To his credit, Weasley offered them privacy. But Draco shrugged that off—with him present, the conversation was less likely to drift into any awkward territory about life debts. You could never tell whether McGonagall was going to come down on the traditional or progressive side of an issue, and Draco didn’t fancy another Granger-esque lecture.

“What did you three talk about?” Harry looked genuinely curious.

Draco smirked. “For starters, I had to make sure it was safe to spend a considerable amount of time as a ferret. It’s a very different world view; I don’t want it fucking up my human brain. And, you know, seeing as how you’ve always wanted a pet to cuddle with . . .”

“I like cuddling with your human form too, you tosser.”

“Yes, well, my ferret form doesn’t steal the blankets.”

Harry laughed. “Good point.” A thought seemed to strike him. “You didn't tell McGonagall why you were spending so much time as a ferret, did you?”

Draco nodded with mock-solemnity. “Yes, Harry. I spilled all our secrets.”

He blushed. “Sorry, that was stupid of me. Did Ron have questions?”

“For McGonagall? A few, yeah. Does he want to become an animagus?”

“Dunno. You should ask him.” Harry paused, looking both earnest and hopeful. “You, ah, seem to be getting on well enough. I mean, dinner with Ron and Hermione wasn’t torture for you, was it?”

“That muggle dive you chose was,” Draco drawled.

Harry laughed again. “Come on. You enjoyed the greasy food. And you and Ron were civil—almost friendly, really. And you and Hermione were doing some weird platonic flirting thing.”

“Well, what can I say?” Draco affected a careless shrug. “Granger is a treasure, as I’m sure you know. And Weasley is . . . surprisingly bearable.”

“So you like them well enough?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter. You chose the right sort of people for friends.”

Harry smiled a little. “I know I haven't met them properly, but Shira and Jamie seem like the right sort.”

“I . . . I think they are. Anyway, you can judge for yourself soon.”

“Yeah. In five or six days, I suppose.” He hesitated, his eyes still earnest. “Do you consider Moan—er, Myrtle a friend? Is that why you insisted on seeing her?”

Draco sighed. Of course Harry wouldn’t let that go without comment.

Harry and Granger had been waiting for them utside of McGonagall’s office. Draco briefly entertained the idea of sneaking off on his own, but he rather liked having two aurors to protect him. And, all right, it would have been difficult to elude them, even as a ferret.

So he had set aside his embarrassment and explained that he had to visit Myrtle. That he had promised her he would from time to time.

“She’s . . . I don’t know if friend is the right word. And you know how limited she is. How she’s, ah—”

“Trapped?” Harry supplied.

Draco nodded. “Yeah. She’ll never grow up. She’ll never stop obsessing over her own misery.” He paused. “But she listened to me when I had no one else to turn to. So . . . I’ll always owe her something.”

Harry reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “You've got a good heart. You know that, don't you?”

He snorted. “And you're still a sap.” He made to get up. “Come on, Potter. Let's get cleaned up and scourgify the linens.”

 

->*<-

 

Draco, damn him, was a morning person. That seemed impossible; Harry had always imagined him lounging in bed until noon, with house elves serving him a late breakfast on an antique silver tray.

But for the second day in a row, he was up at an ungodly hour. Harry cracked one eye open: five o'clock.

Five in the fucking morning. Why?

Harry must have voiced that question, because Draco answered.

“I got into the habit at Hogwarts,” he explained. “I would get up before anyone else so I could work on assignments and revise for exams in peace. Besides, I had to make my high marks look effortless.”

Harry managed to grumble something derogatory in response. He had not willingly gotten out of bed at such a ridiculous time since the early months of auror training, which had been rather like boot camp.

There was a smile in Draco's voice as he replied. “Not a morning person, I take it. Never mind; I'll give you to half-seven or so. I'll leave your clothes laid out over here—”

“Can pick out . . .” Harry’s groggy brain struggled to complete the sentence, “. . . own clothes.”

“No, you really can't.” Draco was chuckling now as he walked back to the bed, leaned down and kissed the top of Harry’s head. “Go back to sleep. Love you.”

Harry was about to grumble something more—until Draco's words suddenly and startlingly sunk in. He bolted up and practically leapt out of bed.

Draco had only just made it to the bedroom door when Harry caught up with him. Harry grabbed hold of the prick’s shoulders and forced him to turn so that they were face to face.

“What did you just say?”

“Calm down, Harry.” Draco looked amused in a wry and bored way. “Not that I mind being manhandled . . . .”

But Harry just tightened his grip and pushed Draco back against the door. Not hard, though. Well, maybe a little hard.

“What did you just say? Tell me!”

Draco leaned back against the door with a nonchalant shrug, as if he had chosen to be pinned there. “I told you to go back to sleep.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “After that.”

“I told you that I love you, you dolt.”

“But you—you’re the one who’s afraid this won’t work! If you already . . . I mean, why do you keep trying to slow us down?”

Draco smirked. “Because you’re an impulsive Gryffindor who needs time to think this through.”

“This is not me being impulsive! Fuck, Draco, I love you too—”

But Draco shook his head as he placed a finger over Harry’s lips. “No, you don’t get to say that yet.”

Harry stared at him for a moment. A long moment. Then he used his hand to bat Draco’s finger away before placing it back on his shoulder, pinning him again. “Wait. You get to say it, but I don’t?”

“Yes. That’s how this works.”

“That’s not how this works!” Harry tightened his grip.

“I’ve loved you for years, Potter. I’ve wanted you for years.” Draco was still using that drawling, bored tone, as if all this should be obvious. “You’ve wanted me for what? Two days?”

“Longer than that!”

Draco gave him a look of patient disbelief.

“I have,” Harry insisted. “Look, I always knew you were a good looking git—”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No, but . . . I sort of, you know, found you attractive before. Before now, I mean.”

“When? We haven’t seen each other for three years. And you’ve only just discovered that you’re a little bent.”

Harry finally released him. “I know. It was back during the trials.”

“During the trials?” Draco raised his eyebrows. “You found me attractive—when? I was a wreck back then.”

“When I visited you in Azkaban that first time. When you were waiting for your trial.”

“Ah.” Draco looked as though it had suddenly all become clear. “Yes, of course. You told me your plan to swoop in and save the day for me and my mother. Playing the hero has always been a turn on for you, hasn’t it?”

There was no particular bite or malice in his words, but Harry rolled his eyes again regardless. “I didn’t phrase it like that. I just—I said I’d testify for you and your mum.”

“It was a rather longer conversation than that. In fact, I remember begging you to testify for my father too. And I remember you refusing.”

Harry took a small step back. “Draco—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not angry about it.” Draco shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and stared down at the floor. “Not anymore. Not even then, I don’t think. It’s not as if I don’t know what the man is.”

A murderer, Harry wanted to say. That’s what Lucius was, whether or not he ever got his own hands dirty. No point in saying that out loud, though.

“But you promised not to make things more difficult for him,” Draco continued, looking up again. “And that . . . that made a difference, Harry.”

“No, it didn’t. You lied to me, Draco. You told me that your father cut a deal with the Wizengamot—not that you cut a deal with Robards on your own to keep the man out of prison.”

Draco swallowed. “It wasn’t a lie.”

Harry gave him a look.

“It was a half-truth,” Draco insisted. “There was a deal for my father to give information on other Death Eaters to the authorities. Me working for Robards was a secret part of that deal, that’s all.”

Harry kept quiet; his lover obviously had more to say.

Draco hesitated. “You didn’t object to the public part of the deal,” he said at last. “I know you wanted to, but you didn’t. But if you had ever told the Wizengamot what you really thought—that my father should rot in prison—he’d have spent the rest of his life in Azkaban.”

“True.” There was no point in denying it. Harry really did have that much influence.

“So you saved him too, in the end.” Draco was looking directly into his eyes now. “You saved my whole family. And then . . . well, like I said, you were kind when I came to you about my wand.”

Harry felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You also told me that you hated me for that.”

Draco snorted. “Just a little. Mostly I was head over heels for you. You’re—well, let’s just say the role of the Holy Saviour suits you.”

“So . . .” Harry paused to swallow. “Are you really in love with me, or are you just grateful to me?”

“Both.” Draco spoke without hesitation. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll always be both.”

“I’m not disappointed. I’m just—” Harry broke off to step closer and put his hands on the door. Now Draco was trapped, rather than pinned, but he still didn’t seem to mind. “Draco, you must have known that I cared about . . . about what happened to you. Why else would I agree to keep my mouth shut when it came to your father?”

“I—I didn’t know what to make of that. Or of the fact that you were helping us at all.”

“But you knew I wanted to help you. You knew at least that much.”

He gave a prim little nod.

“So why didn’t you tell me about Robards blackmailing you?” Harry felt his face heat up. “You came to tell me that you were leaving London. Why did you lie about the reason?”

Draco sighed. Then he leaned forward and kissed Harry on the lips, pausing only to give a playful little bite to his lower one. “It’s complicated. Besides, I . . . I wasn’t a spoiled brat anymore, Harry. I knew I didn’t have a claim on you and I knew how you felt about my father.”

“I’d have helped you.”

“I know that. Now. Maybe I knew it then, I dunno. But it doesn’t matter. I . . . I needed those three years, Harry.”

“You could have had them! You could have had that time in Paris and New York and Buenos Aires and wherever else you went without being blackmailed and without putting your life at risk.”

Draco didn’t say anything to that. He looked frustrated now, as if there were no way he could get Harry to understand.

But Harry did understand, sort of. He knew those three years must have been the making of Draco, because he had changed during them. No, that wasn’t fair. Maybe some of those changes had started earlier. Maybe he had dropped some of his prejudices earlier. And some of his cruelty.

But he must have obtained a wider world view living with Shira and Jamie in New York. They might both be purebloods, but with Jamie as a squib and the pair of them into alternative cultures . . . well, that must have helped. And all that time away from the poison his parents believed must have helped.

Harry sighed and pulled Draco into his arms. Draco didn’t resist. He even returned the embrace.

“Come back to bed,” Harry murmured into his neck.

“I’ve got work to do—”

“That was an order, Malfoy.”

He could hear a smile in Draco’s voice as he answered. “All right.”

Harry kissed his neck and then took his hand and led him back into the bedroom, releasing him only long enough to let him change back into those silk pajamas of his. A moment later he was spooning Draco and kissing his hair. He wanted to tell the git that he loved him, that it wasn’t too early to know that, but he resisted.

Even a Gryffindor, Harry decided, could practise patience.


	15. Chapter 15

Draco didn’t fall back to sleep. Not that it wasn’t comfortable, spooned up against Harry, who kept kissing his hair as he wrapped as much of his body around Draco as was humanly possible. And not that it wasn’t a fucking miracle that Harry Potter wanted anything to do with him, much less wanted him in his bed.

It was just that . . . well, Draco was accustomed to starting his day early. And he was getting restless.

“Is this your impression of an octopus?” he finally asked. “You’re not about to confess to some tentacle kink, are you?”

Harry laughed and kissed his hair again. “No. Not sure I’m all that kinky, really.”

Draco rolled over to face him. “No?” He traced the outline of Harry’s face with one finger. “I think you’ve got a thing for power imbalances.”

“Just between us.” Harry gave him a look. “And I’d want power over you regardless of how much sex we have. And, er, speaking of power imbalances . . . .”

“What?” Draco smirked. “About to issue another order, Potter?”

“Yes. Are you about to obey?”

“Of course. Your humble servant, et cetera.”

“Good.” Harry smirked back. “I want you to learn how to summon a patronus. And how to apparate.”

“Sorry, my love. That’s impossible. On both counts.”

“I refuse to believe that. Let me teach you?”

Draco allowed his lips to curl into a sneer as he rolled onto his back. “Yes, I should certainly bow before your superior skills.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “It’s not like that. Look, I can’t match you in potions or occlumency—you know that. And I’m not an animagus. But when it comes to the stuff I can do . . . well, I’m a decent teacher.”

“Stop being modest.” He knew he was still sneering, but he couldn’t help himself. He had made his peace with Potter’s superiority, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed having it rubbed in. “According to the official histories of the war, you’re a brilliant teacher. Single-handedly teaching Dumbledore’s Army Defense Against the Dark Arts when you were just a fifth year—”

“Are we really back to petty jealousy, Malfoy?” Harry gave him a playful poke to the shoulder.

“I’ll never stop being jealous of you.” Draco was still annoyed, and still sneering, but he grabbed Harry’s hand and kissed it. “And I’ll never learn those spells, you prick.”

“Draco—”

“I don’t have the right character to summon a patronus! And I . . . look, I have apparated before. I told you as much, remember? I just can’t anymore.”

Harry was shaking his head now, partly in disbelief. He obviously couldn’t wrap his brain around the fact that Draco simply couldn’t apparate.

“Draco,” he said at last, “I’m not giving you a choice. You have a target on your back. I want you to know how to apparate and how to send a patronus for help.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t.”

Draco snorted. “Really?”

Harry’s expression turned serious as he narrowed his eyes. “Really. We’re not playing here, remember? I own your arse, so you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“Turning tyrant already?”

That brought the holy-fucking-saviour up short. “No.” Harry shook his head vigorously. “But I—Draco, I just want to keep you safe.”

Fuck. Did Harry have any idea what that tone and that reminder did to him? When Harry was like this—commanding and concerned at the same time—he was irresistible. Draco couldn’t help but obey to the best of his abilities.

But he didn’t have to obey gracefully, so he huffed out a purposely obnoxious sigh, rolled away from the man, and climbed out of bed. “Fine, Potter,” he said without a backward glance. “Just don’t expect miracles.”

 

->*<-

 

Harry left Draco alone for a good hour after their little—what should he call it? It didn’t seem serious enough to be a fight. Draco was just being prickly and melodramatic and . . . well, he was just being himself, really.

And, anyway, if it was a fight, he had clearly won: Draco would let him teach him those two spells. Not that he expected Draco to be an easy student, but Harry was still counting this as a victory.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to mollify his boyfriend, so he dressed himself in the outfit that Draco had laid out for him. Which turned out to be as perfect as yesterday’s: comfortable, casual and somehow just a little edgy. Harry couldn’t help but check himself out in the mirror—he looked good. And not as if Draco were turning him into a fashion plate or anything. No, he looked like himself, but a bit better.

So Harry was smiling as he walked out of the master bedroom and down the stairs to the sitting room. No sign of Draco there, though, so he headed down further, to the ground floor, where he could hear Draco’s voice wafting toward him.

Harry tiptoed past Walburga’s portrait and paused at the entrance to the massive dining room. Draco was standing at the table, with some sort of floor plans spread out before him. He was flanked by Kreacher and Toffee, who each stood on a chair so that they, too, could peer down at the plans.

“Here,” Draco was saying. “The fourth floor will do for Shira and Jamie. There’s a large bathroom they can have all to themselves, plus we can convert one of the bedrooms into a sitting room. Toffee, let’s give it a bohemian feel. We’ll see what Parisian artifacts we can commandeer from my parents’ attic.”

Toffee seemed excited by the prospect. “Yes!”

Kreacher, somewhat to Harry’s surprise, nodded approvingly. “Yes, Master Draco. Shall Kreacher and Toffee arrange the third floor as a guest room for Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley?”

Draco did that thing with his eyebrows. “I suppose, but don’t they have their own flat?”

“Yes.” Kreacher paused to shudder. “But . . . it’s not fit for wizards. And Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley spend most of their free time here.”

Harry had to bite back a grin. Kreacher, as far as he knew, had only been in Ron and Hermione’s flat once. He’d been horrified at the mess—and considering that he liked to sleep in a nest of old rags, that was saying something.

“Very well.” Draco sounded resigned as he stared down at the plans.

“Will Master Draco also want the kitchen kashered for our guests?” Kreacher continued.

“Our kitchen what?” Harry entered the room; time to stop eavesdropping and make his presence known. Though, to be honest, it felt just like old times to be spying on Draco Malfoy.

Draco just glared at him. “Piss off, Potter. This doesn’t concern you.”

Harry grinned as he helped himself to a seat. “I don’t care that you’re still pouting, Malfoy. I still get a say in what happens to my house. What do you want to do to the kitchen?”

The house elves looked from one man to the other. Neither bothered to hide their interest in the power struggle that was taking place in front of them.

“Kasher it.” Draco’s voice was toneless. “Make it kosher, that is. That will keep Jamie happy.”

“Jamie?” Now Harry was confused. “I thought Shira was the Jewish one.”

“She is, but she goes out of her way to eat traif—er, non-kosher food.” He paused, looking both thoughtful and spiteful. “That’s an added benefit to kashering the kitchen actually: it will annoy Shira to no end. Jamie likes all the traditions, though, so she keeps vaguely kosher.”

Okay, Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course she does. All right, then. Kasher away.”

Draco glared at him again, probably just for good measure, and then turned back to the house elves. “Kreacher, you seem to know something about kashering. I rely on you to find out what needs to be done and who should do it.”

The elderly elf nodded. “Kreacher knows house elves from frum families, Master Draco.” And without another word, he disapparated.

Harry blinked at the spot where Kreacher had stood just a moment ago. “All right,” he said. “I’m guessing ‘frum’ means, uh, observant or religious or something?”

“Quite,” Draco answered. “I don’t know how many frum wizarding families there are in Britain—”

“None who sent their kids to Hogwarts.”

Draco smiled at that, apparently forgetting how annoyed he was with his lover. “No. I imagine they're tutored in magic at home—and I don’t think they even call it magic. But I reckon Kreacher knows who to speak with.”

“Apparently,” Harry yawned and leaned back against his chair so that it was balancing dangerously on two legs. “So what about the rest of the house? Have you thought about how to redecorate it?”

“Yes.” To Harry’s astonishment, Draco’s face lit up. “I’m strongly tempted to go for a true rococo feel—this house would take to it perfectly, don’t you think? Just look at the chandelier above us. There would be brilliant lighting throughout this room if we restored it and fixed the mirrors, which are obviously rococo themselves. And imagine a toile de Jouy wall covering. There’s hope even for this table, honestly . . . .”

Draco went on for a full five minutes, his voice more and more enthusiastic. Harry didn’t understand the half of it, but he loved seeing Draco like this.

It was such a mindfuck, though. This was Draco Malfoy, who tormented him for years—sneering the whole time, except when he was laughing at someone. Yet here he was, content to go on and on about the dining room’s potential.

How did he even know this stuff? Did all pure-blood parents teach their children about interior decorating? Did it come right after teaching them the alphabet?

No, the Weasleys must not have done; Ron didn’t know about the rococo style. (Or if he did, he’d never explained it to Harry.) So maybe it was just the posh pure-blood parents.

Harry forced himself to pay attention again. Unfortunately, this didn’t sound at all like a style he would enjoy, especially when it came to gilding.

“Um, okay,” he managed when Draco paused for breath.

“Ah. Doesn’t sound to your liking, does it?”  

“Well . . .” Harry paused. How was he going to get through this conversation without insulting his lover? “It sounds a bit fussy. But that’s just me.”

Draco grinned. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect your taste to be as refined as mine. You’ll prefer something more neo-classical, no doubt.”

“Maybe? I don’t know what that means.”

“Austere instead of extravagant. Think Napoleonic: a few bold, rich colours set off by plenty of white. Military touches here and there. Lots of wood showing, a bit of marble, and perhaps some well-polished brass.”  

“Draco, that sounds perfect.” Now Harry was genuinely enthusiastic. “As long as you can make it comfortable.”

“It will be plenty comfortable, I promise. Pity to see my rococo dreams laid to rest, though.”

“Your bedroom at the manor wasn’t rococo, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t suited to it. The camels really wouldn’t have worked.”

Harry smiled at the memory of that painting. “The Reuvin Rubin, right? Is that going to move here?”

Draco folded his arms across his chest. “Possibly. When you convince me that this is, indeed, my forever home.”

“Soon then,” Harry promised.

“We’ll see, Potter.”

Harry could hear the challenge in his voice, but he didn’t rise to it. He already knew he was going to win this battle too, so there was no need. “Is it all right to have more than one style?” he asked instead. “Because I don’t care what you do with this room. We never eat in here.”

“Yes. Mother prefers a house with more than one style, in fact. As long as the transitions are handled well.”

Ah. So Draco considered his mother the arbiter of interior design questions.

“But I do intend for us to dine in here eventually, Harry.”

“Maybe for special occasions. But go ahead and make this dining room as rococo as you please.”

Draco finally sank into a chair. “All right. But there’s something else we need to discuss.” He paused again, this time to look over at Toffee.

Shit. Harry had forgotten she was there.

“Toffee,” Draco said softly, “is Kreacher still out of the house?”

She nodded. “Yes, Master Draco.”

“You’re not to repeat this part of the conversation to him, understood?”

She nodded again, looking especially pleased to be let in on a secret.

“And you’ll tell us at once when he returns,” Draco continued.

Harry leaned forward, letting all four legs of his chair rest properly on the floor. “Draco, you’re starting to scare me. What’s this about?”

Draco grimaced. “Those wretched elf heads.”

Oh, right. Those.

“I remember them from when I was a child.” He shivered. “They terrified me.”

“I want them taken down! It’s just that Kreacher won’t hear of it.”

“Kreacher is saying it is a great honour,” Toffee piped up. “He is promising that our heads will be mounted someday too, when we are finding ourselves too old to work.”

“He did, did he?” Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry. “Look, I approve of keeping servants happy. Easier on everyone. But you can’t allow Kreacher to call the shots on this.”

Harry glared at him. “I’m going to take them down eventually. And no, Toffee, neither your head nor Kreacher’s will ever be up there. But we can’t tell him that.”

“Then what will Master be doing with our bodies?”

Her voice was curious, but she didn’t seem particularly invested in the answer. They might have been discussing a recent quidditch match. Harry shook himself, just a bit, wondering if this conversation was really part of his life now.

“I’m not sure, Toffee. Maybe we’ll, um—”

“If you don’t outlive us, he’ll entomb them at Malfoy Manor, of course. After your natural deaths,” Draco clarified. “In the house elf part of the catacombs.”

Harry blinked. “You have catacombs?”

“Yes. Most old wizarding estates do. Ours are rather small, though.”

“Your father’s not hiding dark artefacts in them, is he?”

“Of course not. The catacombs are too well known; one really can’t hide anything in there.” He paused to chew on his lip. “You could fit catacombs here, though it would take a great deal of advanced structural magic—”

“We’re not adding catacombs.” Harry made sure there was a note of finality to his voice.

Draco shrugged. “Then it will have to be Malfoy Manor.”

Harry considered that. “It might answer.” He paused as a thought struck him. “Toffee, would you start breakfast please? I’m not sure what Kreacher was planning to serve, but—”

“Toffee knows!” She disapparated immediately.

“Why’d you send her away?” Draco looked suddenly apprehensive.

“I just . . . there’s something I think we should discuss.” He tried to keep his voice gentle. “And not because I want to dredge up the past or anything. But you’re good with Kreacher and Toffee. Very good. So I’d like to know—”

“About Dobby,” Draco finished for him.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.” Draco folded his hands on the table, looking as if he were about to face an interrogation. “I knew he’d come up eventually.”


	16. Chapter 16

Draco stared down at his hands and forced himself to take a deep breath. The temperature in the room, which a moment ago had felt cozy and comfortable, seemed to plummet.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had hardly known Dobby when his family still owned him, but of course he knew all about his fatal wound at Malfoy Manor. And Dobby was featured in all the histories of the war: a free elf, Harry’s loyal friend, and so on. One more person—being?—who had made all the right choices whilst Draco had made all the wrong ones.

He could feel Harry’s eyes on him from his seat across the table. Not boring into him, exactly, but watching him expectantly. And a bit impatiently.

“Tell me something, Harry.” Draco still didn’t look up. “What are you looking for? What good do you expect to come from this conversation?”

“I’m not—Draco, please.” Harry sounded annoyed now. “I’m not looking to hold the past against you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t discuss Dobby.” He should have risked looking up then, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry for your loss. I am. But I didn’t know him as well as you did. And my few interactions with him won’t show me in a positive light.”

Harry let out a sigh that still sounded annoyed. But he also reached across the table to place his hands over Draco’s. “Look, I know you were brought up to think—”

“Oh. So this is about my parents?”

“Yes. No.” Harry sighed again, this time in frustration. But he didn’t move his hands away. “He was my friend, Draco. And there’s so much I don’t know about him. And the things he said about how he was treated as a house elf at Malfoy Manor . . . the things he said about—”

“About me?”

Harry squeezed his hands. Presumably it was meant as a gesture of comfort.

“Tell me, Harry. What did he say?”

“He, uh, didn’t say anything about you when I first knew him. Not that I remember. But then I had him tail you in sixth year.”

That was news to Draco. He finally looked up. “You had a house elf tailing me? And you still didn’t figure out what I was up to?”

“They helped! But they couldn’t follow you into the Room of Requirement.”

“Wait, they?”

“Yes. Dobby and Kreacher both, actually.” Harry smiled a little. “Kreacher just went on and on about the noble cast of your aristocratic features or something. And how he’d rather be serving you.”

All right. Draco couldn’t help but smile at that too. “And what did Dobby have to say?”

“That you were, um, a bad boy—”

“Yeah? Well, he wasn’t wrong about that.”

“—and that you weren’t a good master for a house elf.”

Draco disentangled his hands from Harry and slumped against the back of his chair. “Also true.”

“But you are now.” Harry’s eyes gleamed with something curiously like approval. “You’re not the bully I knew in school—but that’s the bully Dobby knew, isn’t it?”

“Bully? That’s how you saw me in school?”

Harry blinked. “Yeah. Of course.”

Draco snorted. “If I was, I must have been the least successful bully in Hogwarts’ history.”

“Excuse me? You are Draco Malfoy, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He paused to shake his head. “Most bullies sensibly go after people they perceive as weaker. People who are isolated. But I went after you.”

“But—wait. Even if you think I wasn’t . . . you did go after weaker people!”

“Oh, Crabbe, Goyle and I might have inconvenienced some first years. And possibly Longbottom. But, believe me, you were my main target. Followed by the rest of the Golden Trio, of course.”

“I was isolated! And you helped that along. Remember the badges?”

“Yeah.” Draco allowed himself a smirk. “That was impressive charm work, if I do say so myself."

“It was.” Harry’s tone was rueful.

“But I can’t remember a time when you didn’t have either Granger or Weasley supporting you. And mostly you had both. And sometimes you had the whole fucking school on your side.” Draco could feel a hint of affection creeping into his voice. “In any case, you were always more powerful than me.”

“Are you saying you knew that back at Hogwarts?”

“Of course. I just wanted your fucking attention, Potter. And I never cared about getting Dobby’s attention, so I never treated him the way I treated you.”

Harry’s mouth was hanging open now.

Draco stared at him for a moment and then reached a decision. He stood up to announce it—more dramatic that way. “You want to know about my interactions with Dobby? Fine. I’ll show them to you. Tonight.”

“Show them to me? We don’t have a pensieve here.”

“We don’t need one. You’re an auror, Harry. You must have some training in legilimency.”

“And you’re an expert in occlumency.” Harry stood up too. “And, anyway, it’s much more difficult to understand a memory by invading a person’s brain than by watching it in a pensieve.”

“I have faith in you. And I won’t block any memories that concern Dobby. I retain the right to block anything else, however.”

Harry seemed to consider that. Then he put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “If you’re serious, why not give me a go right now?”

“Because I don’t want to be interrupted by the arrival of Granger and Weasley. So tonight?”

Harry hesitated.

“Scared, Potter?”

“No.” His face took on that determined look Draco knew all too well. “Tonight, Malfoy.” 

 

->*<-

 

Ron glanced around the room, noting all the doors and windows yet again. Then he relaxed a little and took a look at his companions.

He was sitting at a corner table with Hermione, Harry, and Malfoy in Coralia's—a posh new restaurant, dead in the centre of Diagon Alley, specialising in seafood. The owners claimed to have forged a trade agreement with the merfolk. No one believed that, but they still charged accordingly. Not that Ron was complaining, mind. His mouth was too busy watering for the sea bass on the menu.

Besides, Malfoy was treating.

The four of them had spent the morning poring over letters published in the Daily Prophet. Some were outraged that the revered Harry Potter seemed to be supporting a form of slavery. Others were angry that the holy saviour was upholding pure-blood traditions that more progressive wizards were attempting to tear down.

Neither complaint made sense to Ron. The ferret wasn't a slave; he could walk away from this anytime. And life debts weren't just a pure-blood thing, even if pure-bloods had created specific ways to repay them. Granted, lifelong servitude did seem a bit extreme—but Harry and Malfoy's entire history together was extreme.

Not all the letters were angry, though. Some were delighted that Draco Malfoy was finally serving some kind of sentence. A disturbing number called on Harry to be as severe as possible.

Those last infuriated Harry. Ron understood that—and he felt the same. He might still have some issues with the ferret, but he didn't want to see him abused. But a lot of people did, and Harry would have to learn how to deal with that kind of hatred. If he really wanted to make a go of it with Malfoy, he'd find himself confronting it often enough.

Fortunately, there were some supportive letters as well. Many of them dismissed the whole story, arguing that an agreement between two consenting adults wasn't newsworthy or anyone else's concern.

Hermione seized on those as the way forward, PR-wise. (After explaining that PR stood for public relations. Muggles used abbreviations for everything.) Harry was well known to be apolitical. He had never intended this life-debt to represent a particular side of the wizarding culture wars, nor as something that anyone else should imitate. So the key, Hermione swore, was to keep emphasising that this was just between him and Draco. It was important to Draco, on a personal level, to pay back his debt. And Harry respected his feelings on the matter.

But she thought that Harry should be seen out and about with Malfoy, so the paparazzi—another muggle term—would see that he wasn't abusing the ferret. Their relationship should look 'friendly and respectful.'

Honestly, it would be a miracle if the press didn’t claim that they were shagging each other raw every night. They kept looking at each other with a half challenging and half adoring gleam in their eyes. But Ron kept that thought to himself.

The ferret was on board with Hermione’s idea, of course, but demanded to be seen in a posh place. Harry had objected at first, because you needed reservations in advance for a restaurant like this, even just for lunch. He knew they’d make an exception for him, but he hated taking advantage of the whole saviour thing.

But Draco had lifted his eyebrows and informed Harry that even Snape would forgive him for being a celebrity now. And so here they were.

It was a good meal. A brilliant one, really, and Ron found himself enjoying the ferret’s company. The bastard flirted shamelessly with Hermione, of course, but it was obviously harmless and she obviously thrived on it. And, anyway, Ron would punish him later by thrashing him at chess—Malfoy had promised him a game.

So Ron was in a decent mood as they left. He was ready to face the members of the press who were hovering outside, a barely respectable distance from Coralia’s front door. (Some of them must be paparazzi; there were plenty of cameras out there.) He kept his wand at the ready, though, in case anyone in the crowd thought to take a shot at Malfoy.

But he shouldn’t have worried about that. He should have worried about the poisonous tongue of Rita Skeeter instead.

How did that beetle’s voice carry over the rest of the throng? And how did she manage to push herself up front like that? Ron almost snarled at her perfectly coiffed hair, her gleaming gold teeth and that damned quill of hers, which looked ready to scribble away.

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry would ignore her. He had to ignore her.

“Mr. Potter,” she persisted, her voice still stronger than the other journalists who were vying for his attention, “do you feel that everyone you’ve rescued in the line of duty owes you a life debt?”

The question caught Harry—and, okay, Ron too—completely off guard. What was she on about?

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry sounded as clueless as Ron.

“You rescued Mr. Malfoy in the line of duty, did you not?” Her eyes lit up in false admiration. “A brave auror pulling an agent out of a fiery trap?”

Oh no. Suddenly Ron understood. He glanced at Hermione, hoping she had some clever response, but she had turned white.

“Quite heroic, Mr. Potter.” Skeeter's voice carried easily now; everyone else in the crowd had fallen silent. “But why would performing your duty as an auror entitle you to a life debt?”

The Prophet had carried the story about the rescue. The Auror Department—advised by PR types, probably—had led the public to believe that Harry had been acting under orders when he rescued Malfoy. Robards couldn’t admit that he’d left an agent to die, or that Harry had risked his life to save said agent without permission. Hell, Harry shouldn’t have known who the agent was or where he was being held.

But if Harry had been acting under orders, the rescue wouldn’t have created a life debt. Or maybe it would have done, in some technical sense. But no auror would recognise a debt under those circumstances. And it wasn’t the same thing as Harry going off on his own initiative, risking not only his life for Malfoy but his career.

Ron opened his lips to speak, but Malfoy beat him to it. Good thing, because Ron had no idea what would have come out of his mouth.

“Miss Skeeter,” Malfoy drawled in that posh, bored tone of his, “Harry has saved my life before, as I’m sure you know. It was during the war, at great risk to himself, when we were on opposite sides.”

“Yes.” Her quill was floating in front of her now, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. “How interesting, then, that he waited until this last rescue to call in the life debt.”

“I didn’t call it in,” Harry spat. “Draco and I came to an agreement, that’s all. An agreement that’s not magically or legally binding on either of us. It’s just—it works for us. And it lets us sort a few things together.”

Skeeter raised her eyebrows “Does it? How friendly you make servitude sound.”

“We are friends now,” Harry retorted.

“So this life-debt does not encompass your most recent daring mission? Pulling Mr. Malfoy out of the flames once more—”

Hermione finally found her voice. “Surely you realise that Harry can’t comment on an auror mission! Especially one that’s related to an ongoing investigation.”

Skeeter pretended to look chagrined. “Of course, Mrs. Granger-Weasley. Perhaps Mr. Potter will tell us instead just why, despite his heroics, he is reportedly assigned to deskwork for the foreseeable future?”

“Presumably because he deserves a rest from said heroics.” Malfoy put a hand on Harry’s back. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

Skeeter didn’t press for more. In fact, all the journalists and photographers seemed to grasp that Harry was not going to offer another word.

Ron glanced at Malfoy with frank admiration—that bored drawl of his was an effective way to close an interview. Much better than saying ‘no comment.’

But the ferret had only bought them a brief reprieve. Somehow Skeeter had sniffed out the scandal at the Auror Department, and nothing Harry, Hermione or Malfoy said was going to dissuade her from pursuing the story. Ron didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad one, but he wished it wasn't Skeeter.

Whatever the fallout, Harry wasn’t at fault. Ron repeated that over and over in his head as the foursome made their way along Diagon Alley. Robards should never have left Malfoy to die. He probably shouldn’t have blackmailed Malfoy into becoming an agent either—although that was murkier territory. The aurors had never been saints; Ron was well aware of that.

Shit. The press didn’t know about the blackmail, did they? Would Skeeter uncover that too?

Harry was obviously fuming, but he seemed well aware of their surroundings. Ron’s eyes swept the street as well. They were coming up to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, which always seemed a world away from the Auror Department.

He frowned at the shop. His brother wanted him to quit the aurors and come work with him instead. Ron thought about Robards, and how he both admired the man and despised him. For the first time, he was tempted by George’s offer.


	17. Chapter 17

Harry sank into the mattress, arms wrapped around the pillow that supported his chest.

"Still tense," Draco chided. "What am I doing wrong?"

"Nothing." Harry closed his eyes as Draco rubbed a soothing ointment into his shoulders. "Your hands feel amazing. Keep going, please."

He wasn't lying. Harry had never had a massage before, but now he understood why so many people swore by them. Presumably a professional didn't straddle you as they attended to your shoulders and back, though, so having your partner give you one seemed an added benefit.

A quite knowledgeable partner, judging by the gentle yet intense pressure of Draco's hands. Harry really did relax, at least a bit, trying to put the whole situation with Robards out of his mind. But just that stray thought caused him to tense up all over again.

"Potter," Draco complained. He stopped rubbing.

"Sorry. The massage is helping, I swear it. Please don't stop."

Harry felt him reach over for something, and then heard him rubbing his hands together. Applying more ointment, no doubt, which seemed to sink into Harry’s muscles and burn out the soreness and tension. In a good way, of course. Harry didn't know the name of the stuff, but Draco claimed that the secret behind it had been in his family for generations. He also claimed to have improved it himself. Harry believed him; he'd always been good at potions and such.

Draco shifted a bit and placed his hands, now nicely warmed, on the middle of Harry's back. "How's that?"

Harry groaned in delight. "Perfect. Keep going."

"It's clearly not perfect as you're tensing up again." How did Draco manage to sound haughty, exasperated and kind all at once? "You can do some of your own kvetching, whining and whinging, you know. You're entitled."

"No, let's just—"

"Out with it, Potter. Still worried about Robards?"

"Yeah. Not worried for him, I mean—"

"I know what you mean." He kept up the massage, working his way toward Harry's lower back. "You're worried about the fallout if Skeeter publishes the truth. And what will happen if the public discovers just how you came to pull my arse out of the fire again."

"Well, it was an unauthorised rescue."

There was a smile in Draco's voice now. "You never were good at following the rules."

"No." Harry pushed himself up a little, his anger getting the best of him. "Look, Robards deserves to be exposed. He had no right to leave you to die like that!"

"A lot of people will disagree with you on that. There's this little mark I've got on my arm . . ."

"I don't care that you were a Death Eater! That happened when you were a teenager. Fuck it, Draco. You stood trial for any wrongs you committed. It's over."

Draco kissed the back of his neck. "Not to most of Britain's wizarding world, Harry. You know that." He paused to shift again, allowing his hands to work their magic just above Harry's arse. "What's really troubling you? So what if Skeeter publishes the truth? Nothing terrible will happen to Robards, you know. At worst, he'll be forced to resign. But he's too talented to be ruined. He'll weather out the scandal and end up heading some other important part of the ministry. At least that's what my father thinks."

"I don't actually care what—wait, your father? When did you talk to him?"

"I didn't. I have Toffee checking in with my parents each day; she had a note from the man waiting for me when the four of us got home—word of that little interview must have spread like fiendfyre. Toffee gave it to me right before my disastrous chess match with Weasley."

Harry collapsed back down, attempting to deepen his breaths and relax for real. "It wasn't disastrous. You're better than me and Hermione never has time to study the game, so she won’t play. Ron was thrilled."

"He still slaughtered me in the end."

"No, you gave him a decent game." He paused. "I suppose I should change the wards here so that you can accept owls from your family, yeah?"

"Yeah, unless we can convince them to start texting us instead."

"Do they have proper mobiles? Or a pager or something?"

"They have one mobile they share. Not sure if it has a proper keyboard. And they definitely don't have that one with the virtual keyboard. Dunno about a pager, though. They ought to have one."

Harry bit his lip. It was funny to think of the elder Malfoys with any muggle technology, but he didn't want to offend Draco by laughing. "Well, er, perhaps we can purchase new mobiles for them at Christmas. Or for their birthdays or something."

"You realise we haven't even exchanged mobile numbers?"

"Merlin, that's true." Harry pushed himself up again and twisted a bit so he could see Draco. "Why haven't we?"

"Presumably because I've been living in your pocket."

"Ah." Harry untwisted and lowered himself again. "True. I like that, though. I mean, we should exchange numbers, obviously, but I also like the idea of you staying right at my side."

"You might grow tired of my snark." Draco resumed the massage yet again. "And you'll have to go back to work eventually, you know."

"If Robards—or his successor—doesn't sack me." Harry shrugged. "But I'll probably still be on desk duty. I'll just bring the ferret cage with me so you won't be in the way—"

"What?" Draco leaned forward, lightning quick, and nipped him on the shoulder.

"Ouch!" Harry laughed as he reached behind to capture Draco's wrists and pull him even closer, so that he was trapped against Harry's back now. "Stop that. You'll  come with me whenever I tell you to and transform into a ferret whenever I say. A ferret with a fucking muzzle, that is."

Draco bit him again in response, sparking yet another wrestling match between them. Which ended in a win-win: Harry might have out-wrestled his boyfriend, but Draco seemed pretty happy to be pinned beneath him. Happy enough to kiss him soundly.

It was an excellent kiss, in Harry's non-expert opinion, but when it ended Draco looked like he had something on his mind. Something foreboding.

"What's the matter, Draco?"

"Ah, speaking of birthdays . . . ."

Harry released him, sat up, and tried for a teasing grin. "We weren't speaking of birthdays. We were speaking of you behaving."

"Yes, well, before that." He sat up too, but then hesitated. "My birthday is next Tuesday."

"Oh!" Harry sat there blankly, his mouth hanging open, as his brain raced ahead to do the maths. So Draco was born on 5 June. In 1980, of course, same as himself. And like Harry, he was turning twenty-one this year.

Harry had never thought about Draco's birthday before, though he might have seen it on some court paper or other back during the trials. In all their time at Hogwarts, he had never wondered when or how his nemesis celebrated the day. "Thank Merlin you gave me some warning! What do you—"

"Harry, I usually do something with my parents on or near the date. At least when I'm in the country. Dinner or something."

"Oh. Right. Of course. I'd like to come too, if that's all right. Unless you want quality time alone with them." It was fine either way, really. He could survive another dinner at Malfoy Manor, but he didn't mind if Draco wanted his parents to himself.

"Oh, you're more than welcome. My parents will be counting on it." His voice was dry now. "They'll be counting on the six of us going out to dinner, I'm sure."

Harry frowned. "Er, they want Hermione and Ron to come along?"

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Oh! Right. Shira and Jamie will be here. That's who they want with us." Harry tried to dial back his astonishment. "Do they know about Jamie? I mean your parents are—um, they won't mind being seen with a squib?"

Now Draco was looking as if he were forced to endure the most clueless boyfriend in history. "The question, Harry, is if you're willing to be seen with them. With my parents, I mean. In a magical establishment—not a muggle one. We won't be able to hide from the press."

"Oh." Fuck.

"You don't want to talk about this just yet." Draco eyes were narrowed, but his tone was surprisingly free of judgment. Mostly.

"Not really, no." Better to be honest. "I need time to think this through."

Draco nodded. "Very well. Shall we exercise your legilimency, then? I did promise to let you see my memories of Dobby tonight.”

"Yes." Harry didn't bother disguising his relief. "Let's."

 

->*<-

 

“So, I suppose we should start.” Draco sat down on the bed, cross-legged, and waited. He wasn’t keen to have Harry rifling through his memories of Dobby, but it was preferable to putting them into words.

Harry sat down on the bed too, facing him. They were both freshly showered and in pajamas—well, Draco, at least, was in proper pajamas. Harry owned plenty of his own, but preferred a tee shirt and joggers.

“I’m ready,” Harry said.

“Are you reasonably experienced in legilimency?”

He blushed. “Ah, no. Not really. Most of my experience came through my, er, connection with Voldemort.”

Draco stared. This was a part of the war that had never been satisfactorily dealt with in the histories published thus far: the exact nature of the connection between the Dark Lord and Harry.

“Our minds were linked for quite a while.” Harry’s face was bright red now. “Once he realised that he turned it against me, but . . . well, that link remained a factor in the war.”

He was obviously being as vague as possible, but Draco decided not to push him. Harry was too skittish at the moment. “All right. But whatever this link was, it didn’t constitute proper training in legilimency?”

“No. And, actually, Snape tried to teach me occlumency to counteract it. That was back in, um, fifth year, I think.”

Draco grinned. “When you supposedly had extra classes with him because you were doing so poorly in Potions?”

Harry grinned back. “Fuck you! I wasn’t. That was just a cover story.”

“Poor Potty. Never could handle the delicate art of brewing—”

“Do you want some quality time in your ferret cage?”

“No.” Draco bit back another smile before he continued. “Severus Snape was a master of occlumency, though. To have studied under him—Harry, you should be an expert!”

“Trust me, I’m not.” His eyes took on a far away look, as if he were lost in a memory. Then he shook his head. “We didn’t work well together. It was partly my fault, because I wanted the connection between Voldemort and me to grow even stronger. I wanted to figure out what he was up to.”

Draco swallowed. He couldn’t imagine wanting to be inside that warped, sadistic mind. “Fuck, Harry!”

“I know. I was stupid. Impossibly stupid. But it was partly Snape’s fault too.” He paused. “I’ve learned to love the memory of that man. But back then . . . .”

“You two had a difficult relationship; I remember.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed. “He would just come at me with legilimency—he didn’t explain things first. He kept telling me to clear my mind, assuming I knew how to do that—”

“What? Harry, what do you mean?”

“Just what I said. He kept telling me to clear my mind, but he never bothered teaching me any sort of meditation or anything. Didn’t even send me off to the library for a book on it.”

Draco’s mouth was hanging open now. And that, he realised, was his most common response to Harry’s revelations. “Snape tutored you in occlumency, but never taught you to meditate?”

“Right.”

“But that’s—” Draco shook himself and then clambered off the bed. He started pacing the room as Harry watched him. “I understand your difficulties with occlumency. It relies on an ability to compartmentalise. And you would hate that. You’re too . . . you’re a seamless whole, you know? You’re not the sort who would lock parts of himself away.”

“No, I’m not.” There was a rueful tone in Harry’s voice. “But I understand the value of occlumency now, trust me.”

“Right. But, er, even a person who doesn’t mind compartmentalising still has to learn to do it effectively. And that’s where meditation comes in, yeah? A disciplined mind is essential. In fact, my Aunt Bella said—”

He broke off abruptly. Harry would not want to be reminded that his Aunt Bella once existed, let alone listen to any advice she had given on occlumency. Hell, Draco didn’t like to remember her existence either. Meditation had certainly never cured her faults.

But Harry suddenly looked keenly interested. “Don’t stop. What did Bellatrix say?”

“Only that—well, you know she was a wizarding supremacist. She despised muggles. Not the way Voldemort did, if only because she didn’t think about them as often. And she thought they were good for certain things. Manicures, for example. She and my mother both believed that muggle salons were superior—”

“Draco!” Harry was rolling his eyes now. “Just tell me what she said about occlumency.”

“It was more about meditation. She told me once that if there were such a thing as a truly disciplined mind amongst muggles—a true master of mediation, I mean . . .”

“Someone like the Dalai Lama?”

“Possibly, yes. Not that we can test him.”

“Ah, no. We’re not nabbing the Dalai Lama and subjecting him to wizarding experiments.”

“That might break a few statutes, yes. But Aunt Bella said if such a muggle existed, she would would wager her inheritance that a wizarding expert in legilimency wouldn’t be able to penetrate his mind. Not without permission.”

“But . . . do you think the Dalai Lama compartmentalises?”

“No idea, Potter. But that’s how important meditation is to occlumency. And she said that even whilst believing that muggles are far beneath us.”

“Huh. Well, maybe Snape didn’t agree? Or maybe he thought—I dunno what he thought.” Harry paused to fold his arms over his chest. “But he really did hate me sometimes. He kept looking at me and seeing my father. And he really, really hated my father.”

Draco stopped pacing and considered that. “No, Snape can’t have wanted you to fail. I’m sure he wanted to defeat the Dark Lord more than he hated you.”

Harry smiled. “Fortunately that’s true. But I brought out the worst in him.”

“Always?”

“No, not always. And Draco, don’t take this to heart.” Harry’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to take anything away from all that Severus accomplished—”

“Don’t worry. I had my own difficulties with the man. Starting in sixth year, of course.” He sighed. “I assume the aurors taught you both occlumency and legilimency. And at some point you must have learned some sort of basic meditation.”

“Yes, counting breaths. My occlumency is a little better now. But my legilimency is patchy at best. We don’t spend as much time on it as you’d think. Veritaserum is more reliable in the interrogation room.”

“Do you meditate every day now?”

“Not even close.”

So the saviour was going to be relying on raw power as he poked through Draco’s brain instead of discipline. So Draco was going to need enough discipline for the both of them.

Fuck it. Draco wasn’t backing out now. He climbed back onto the bed, sat cross-legged once again, and looked Harry straight in the eye.

“Are we starting?”

Draco nodded and took hold of Harry’s hands. “I’m going to take you into my memories. Recent ones first; you’ll see a swirl of the ones I allow to remain on the surface: the ones I don’t care if anyone penetrates. Then I’ll take you deeper.”

Harry nodded. “All right.”

“This is not a pensieve, Potter. Don’t expect these memories to be orderly or logical or objective.”

“I do know a bit about legilimency, Malfoy.” And there was that determined look again. “Let’s do this.”


	18. Chapter 18

Harry held his wand firmly, savouring the way the holly hummed to life in his hand. A zillion dirty jokes about wands leapt into his brain, but he summoned enough discipline to dismiss them all. Legilimency was a serious business; he didn’t want any harm coming to Draco as he delved into his memories.

He took a deep breath and stared straight into Draco’s eyes—which, right now, were the haunting grey of the sky just as a storm clears. But they were also wide and and deliberately inviting, as if Draco were just waiting for Harry to begin.

Right. Draco was ready. He was ready. So Harry raised his wand, took Draco’s hand in his spare one, and spoke the incantation.

He knew it wouldn’t be like a pensieve, and yet the initial sensation was the same: he was falling. But the similarity ended there. He wasn’t tumbling into a specific memory. It was more like plummeting through a whirlwind: colours, sounds, scents, and emotions spun around him.

Fuck! Harry closed his eyes, still falling, trying to make sense of everything bombarding him. This was the storm-like rush of thoughts, feelings, and memories that Draco allowed to remain at the surface. Harry needed to find the eye of this whirlwind, the calm centre, so he wouldn’t be battered by them.

But he couldn’t find it. He tried counting his breaths, but it wouldn’t work. Nothing worked, he kept plummeting . . . until he came crashing to a halt, landing on some kind of flooring that was hard and unforgiving.

He opened his eyes. Stone. He was sprawled on a fucking stone floor. No wonder his body was shrieking in pain.

“Graceful as ever, Potter.” Draco’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Harry pushed himself up and stared. Draco was standing over him, gloating. But he was also holding out his hand. Harry took it and allowed his nemesis-turned-boyfriend to pull him to his feet.

No bones were broken; Harry was sure of that. Well of course they weren’t. This wasn’t real, at least in the sense that Harry wasn’t physically here. He shook himself, remembering how legilimency worked.

But that was a tricky subject, because you had to be flexible with legilimency. As Snape had explained long ago, reading a mind wasn’t like reading a book. When you were invading someone’s head, it was all about interpretation.

He wasn’t invading anyone’s head right now, though. Draco had invited him in. And he was standing right here to guide him.

Harry nodded, trying to convey a bit of gratitude, and looked around. This room, stone floor and all, appeared to be an old-fashioned kitchen, with pots and kettles and such hanging directly over the massive fireplace. It was rather like the kitchen in Hogwarts, only much smaller. But it was . . . tense, somehow. Like the room itself was waiting for something to happen.

It didn’t have to wait long. There was a rumble beneath them and then the whole place started shaking. Draco’s grip on Harry—they were still holding hands—tightened. He didn’t let go until the shaking stopped.

Harry took a deep breath. “That wasn’t an earthquake, was it?”

“No. Those aren’t common in Wiltshire.”

“Wiltshire? We’re in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor, then?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Draco frowned at him, as if deciding how much he should reveal.  “I spent a lot of time here as a child.”

Harry threw him a sharp look. “With Dobby?”

“No, not with Dobby. I didn’t know him well.” Draco looked away from Harry then, his features tight. “The house elves assigned to the kitchen would give me a treat and let me sit in a corner and read. We didn’t speak much; I don’t know if they realised I had, er, borrowed the books from my mother’s private library. Or that I should never have been reading them at my tender age.”

Harry felt himself blanch. “Dark arts?”

Draco turned back to him with an odd expression and then burst out laughing. “No, Harry. They were adult books with plenty of sex. Quite explicit, some of them.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked at the thought of Draco or Narcissa reading books like that, and then burst out laughing too. Only for a moment, though, before remembering why he was here. “How do I access your memories? I thought the surface ones would be obvious.”

“No. The swirl of raw emotions contained in those memories is, but not the memories themselves.”

“But I thought you didn’t care if anyone penetrated these memories. You’re purposely keeping them on the surface, yeah?”

“Yeah. But it’s a trick my Aunt Bella taught me.” He paused. “When people know you have some skill in occlumency—and Voldemort knew, as did Robards—it’s best to select the thoughts and memories you’ll allow to the surface and then protect them. And you want a good mix: painful, giddy, embarrassing, shameful, content . . . you get the idea.”

Harry’s brain struggled to take that in. Not because he didn’t see the logic in it; he did. But the mental effort involved in curating one’s thoughts like that must be overwhelming.

He looked around for a place to sit. Unfortunately, most of the furniture here was designed for house elves, so he took a seat on the floor instead.

Draco followed suit. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. So, um, you choose the thoughts you’ll allow to rise to the surface, and then you lock them up. So when someone penetrates them through legilimency—”

“They believe they’ve penetrated much further than they have, in fact, managed.”

“But did that work on Voldemort?”

Draco shrugged. “To the best of my knowledge, he only made it through two layers of my protection. He didn’t think I was capable of hiding anything deeper than that.”

Harry wasn’t even sure how to frame his next question. “Um, how many ‘layers’ had you prepared for?”

“I thought he’d make it through three or four. But I was lucky. He didn’t find me very interesting, so he rarely bothered with me. Or rather, he did, but not as far as legilimency went."

“Huh.” Harry bit his lip. “I know I’m going to sound conceited, but I have to ask: Voldemort was obsessed with me. And you knew me better than anyone else on his side. I mean, not that you wanted to be on his side by the time he was living in Malfoy Manor, but—”

“I know what you mean.” Draco gave him a tired smile. “You think I knew you best?”

“Oh yeah. No one ever got under my skin the way you did. So why didn’t he try harder to delve into your thoughts?”

Draco actually chuckled at that. “He didn’t know how obsessed I was with you. The thoughts he saw were about my fear of him—which he enjoyed—or about me trying to live up to my father, or about my impure thoughts for other boys my age. Ah, excluding you, of course. I kept those fantasies locked up tight many layers deeper.”

“Wait, you let Voldemort know you were gay? Did your parents even know back then?”

“Not officially, but they might have suspected.”

“But . . . why give Voldemort ammunition like that?”

“Because he liked having it, and it wasn’t as harmful to me as he imagined.” His smile grew almost proud. “That’s a critical part of occlumency, Potter. Give the person penetrating your brain a secret that’s not nearly as important as he thinks it is.”

“One of your Aunt Bella’s tricks?”

“Of course.”

Harry shook his head. Everything Draco was telling him made sense, but to curate your memories and thoughts and feelings to that extent . . . that had to be hellish. And it was so cold. How was it possible to be cold enough to sort through your memories—memories tied to the best and worst of you—and choose which to put on display in order to mislead people?

Draco’s smile faltered. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

“Nothing.” He reached for Draco’s hands again. “It’s just that—you don’t have to do this anymore. Voldemort’s dead. The aurors aren’t going to interrogate you again. You don’t need layers and layers of security in your head.”

Draco didn’t pull his hands away from Harry, but he didn’t quite return their grip either. “Call it a force of habit. Or a security blanket, perhaps. I like knowing that certain memories are locked up tight.”

“But don’t you feel—I mean, isn’t it draining to be like this?”

Something in Draco’s manner shifted. “Like what, exactly?”

“Constantly worried about what other people must think of you, or how they’ll judge you if they do pick up an anything. You don’t have to live like that anymore, Draco.”

Draco’s lips curled into a scowl. “Thank you so much for your concern.” He pulled his hands from Harry and folded them. “Care to remember why we’re here? It’s because I’m graciously giving you access to some of those memories.”

"Don't be like this." Harry’s blood started pumping hard—he could feel it rushing to his face. “Don’t you dare turn cold on me.”

“Do you want to see my memories of Dobby or not?”

“Yes!”

“Then let’s get on with this. You’re not even past my first layer of security.”

“Fuck. Can’t you bring me straight through it?”

“Of course. But I’m no longer inclined to. I’ll let you figure out the password on your own.”

“Password?”

“Yes. Speak it and you can go deeper.”

Harry leapt to his feet. “Draco—”

“Don’t worry, my lord and master.” His Malfoy sneer was back as he stood up too. Back and in full force. “I’ll give you plenty of hints.”

“I don’t want your hints! I want—”

But Draco ignored him as he continued. “Close your eyes, Harry. There’s a memory of mine hidden right in this room. You need to centre yourself so you can find it.”

Harry’s face was still hot. He knew he was close to fuming, but he did as Draco said anyway. He closed his eyes and slowed his breaths. His brain wouldn’t quite relax, but he felt it quiet a little.

That wasn’t enough, though. “I’m not sensing anything about you sitting in a corner with those dirty books, Malfoy.”

“I didn’t say the memory happened here, Potter. Just that I’ve hidden it here. Pay attention!” Harry could sense him rolling his eyes. “Fuck, no wonder Snape couldn’t teach you anything.”

“Bastard,” Harry muttered.

“Shhh.” Draco was behind him now, wrapping his arms around him. And, all right, the sudden warmth felt good. A tiny bit of Harry’s anger dissipated as he leaned back against his lover.

And then his brain must have relaxed properly, because he felt the tug of a memory. A cracked mirror. A smashed cistern. Shame. Anger. Terror. A water-logged floor . . . .

Shit! He moved to push Draco away, but Draco tightened his arms.

“No, Harry. Shhh. Just let the memory come. It’s important. There’s something you need to understand.”

Harry didn’t push him off, although he easily could have done. Something about Draco’s voice stopped him.

But that didn’t mean he was happy about it. “Fuck. Voldemort saw this memory? That’s how he found your first password?”

And Harry knew precisely what the password was now. And, at this moment, he hated Draco for using it.

“God, no.” Draco’s tone was half contemptuous and half soothing. “I’ve switched about my memories and codes since that time, I promise. Focus, Harry.”

Moaning Myrtle was screaming about murder in the bathroom. And there was pain. A knife-like, cutting pain, though somehow Harry knew he wasn’t feeling the full force of it, that it was muted in the memory. And there was blood in the water as his body—no, Draco’s body, not now but in the past—shook uncontrollably.

“You feel it?” Draco whispered. “The pain, the shock? I always thought you couldn’t feel pain once the shock took over. But, trust me, I felt every vicious slice . . . .”

“Stop!” Harry clenched his fists, but kept them glued to his sides. “I don’t care about your fucking password or your fucking security. I’m not going to say that word again.”

“Why? It’s just a word. You’re not casting the spell this time. Go ahead. Say it. You have to, if you wish to get any further.”

Harry forced himself to gulp down a lung’s worth of air. “You’re fucking cruel, you know that? You’re pissed off because you think I insulted you. But I didn’t mean to, and you’re lashing out anyway.”

“And this is news to you?” Draco scoffed. “Really, Potter?” He tightened his grip again, pulling Harry’s back even closer to his chest.

Why wasn’t he pushing Draco off of him? Harry couldn’t imagine why he was putting up with this.

But then more of the memory struck him—or, rather, an emotion embedded in the memory: relief. Beyond the shame and the anger and the terror, beyond the pain and the shock, what Draco had felt more than anything was relief.

Harry did push away from him this time. And he opened his eyes as he spun around to face Draco.

“You were relieved!” Harry was shaking his head in disbelief as he spoke.

“Yes. I was . . . I was rather surprised at the feeling myself.”

“What the fuck, Draco? This was before Snape came to the rescue. Did you want to die?”

“No. I just . . . I understood then. About you.”

“That I could be a murdering bastard? That’s what you understood?” Harry clenched his fists again, furious with himself. “I was a stupid bastard, Draco. I would never have cast that if I’d known what it did.”

Suddenly, bizarrely, Draco was smiling. “I keep telling you: I’m not angry about that spell. I don’t blame you. And, honestly, I’m glad I didn’t know that it was unintentional. Because, Harry, you slicing me open like that—that’s when I knew that you had it in you. That you could defeat Voldemort.”

Harry gaped at him.

“I didn’t stay relieved, you know? Because it didn’t help me personally. I still couldn’t work out how to . . . how to get out of murdering Dumbledore. Or how to work up the nerve if I couldn't get out of it. Or how long my family could possibly stay alive afterward, because the Dark Lord would always have more tasks for us . . .”

“Draco, stop.”

To Harry’s surprise, he did. But only for a moment. Then he reached out, placed a hand on Harry’s arm, and gave him a look of sheer gratitude. “But it still helped. Knowing that it wasn’t just talk. That you really could defeat him.”

Harry took a ragged, shaky breath. “I’m not a saint. And I’m not proud of everything I did along the way—but it wasn’t any killer instincts of mine that defeated Voldemort. Quite the opposite.”

Draco managed a nod. “All right. Someday maybe you’ll tell me the full story—everything that’s left out of all these new history books.”

“Yes. I will.” It was a promise.

An awkward silence followed. Draco finally broke it. “Now what? Are you ready to go on? Do you still want to?”

Did he?

Yeah, he did. Only this wasn’t just about Dobby any more. This was about Draco now too, and what Harry needed to understand about him in order to help their relationship survive.

So Harry stepped forward and tugged Draco into his arms, kissing him long and hard.

Draco seemed surprised—more like astonished, actually—but he didn’t resist. He just looked a bit dazed as Harry released him. But that was . . . that was fine.

Harry stepped back, closed his eyes, and spoke the password clearly and loudly. “Sectumsempra!”


	19. Chapter 19

Harry was falling again, but there was no swirl of thoughts and memories this time, and he landed gently on his feet—in the middle of a muggle office.

An enormous, bustling office.

People were perched at their desks all around him, typing frantically on their keyboards as they spoke on their phones in American English, spewing jargon that Harry vaguely recognised as financial. More people rushed past him, carrying paperwork in one hand and their pagers in the other.

But not everyone was hell-bent on some call or bit of paperwork. There were people laughing and joking with each other too, or throwing their hands up in mock despair at some piece of news or other.

Harry couldn’t help but grin. These were obviously muggle business people, but their genial mix of chaos and productivity reminded him oddly of the aurors.

So this must be New York. Bill Weasley had travelled here once, after the war, on Gringotts’ business. It was like London, he said, but much smaller, especially Manhattan itself. Boroughs like Brooklyn and Queens had a bit more space to them, but in Manhattan everyone was crammed against each other or piled on top of each other. And that somehow gave the city and everyone in it a jolt of energy. You felt it, Bill said, from your first breath.

Harry reckoned he could feel that jolt now, even though—Jesus Merlin Christ, they were high up! He wasn’t close to any of the windows, but he could still see out of them, and they were . . . fuck, was he seeing over the tops of skyscrapers?

Yes. Yes, he absolutely was.

“Bit dizzying isn’t it?”

Draco’s voice surprised Harry, mostly because it had lost its customary drawl. He sounded almost tentative, as if unsure whether they were still on speaking terms.

Harry turned around slowly, and found his boyfriend leaning against the edge of one of the desks. A large desk for multiple people. A woman was sitting right next to him, in fact. She was staring at her computer screen, making a face at data of some sort, but she paid him no mind.

Were they on speaking terms? Well, Harry had just snogged him, hadn’t he?

“Where are we?” Harry kept his own voice gentle to reassure him.

Draco looked relieved as he furrowed his brow. “On either the 102nd or the 103rd floor of the north Twin Tower. Cantor Fitzgerald’s offices go from the 101st to the 105th, but I can never remember which one Benjamin’s desk is on.”

The name Benjamin sounded familiar, but Harry latched onto the business name instead. “Cantor Fitzgerald? That’s a muggle company?”

“A muggle financial services firm, yes.”

“Right.” Harry turned back toward the window. “Imagine flying a broom this high? One time, during the war, Moody—the real Moody, I mean—took us up so high that . . .” He let his voice trail off as he remembered the circumstances.

An awkward silence passed. Neither of them spoke; both just listened to the cordial mayhem of the office workers.

“It’s always going to be awkward, isn’t it?” Draco said at last. “Us talking about the war?”

“Yes.” Harry tore his eyes away from the window and looked back at him. “But we can’t spend our lives talking around it.”

“I suppose not.” Draco hesitated, but then motioned to the desks around them—or perhaps to all the people in them. “Is this your first look at a muggle office? Did your muggle family ever bring you to one?”

“My muggle family?” Harry laughed as he shook his head. “My Uncle Vernon never showed me off at his work; he liked to pretend I didn't exist.”

Draco's expression was curiously neutral. “So you've never seen one before?”

“I have, actually. Auror business took me into one—we were under cover, of course. But it wasn’t as large or so high up!” He paused. “Was this a first for you?”

“Yes.” Draco didn't elaborate.

Harry thought for a moment, and then changed the subject. “So, Benjamin: why do I know that name? Wait. He's Shira's brother-in-law. And a muggle, yeah?”

“Yeah. He brought me up here a couple of times. Showed me around.”

It was almost impossible to imagine Draco so chummy with a muggle, but Harry kept that thought to himself. “How do Shira’s parents feel about . . . about a regular muggle businessman in the family?”

“Her father’s not overjoyed. But, honestly, Noa—that’s Shira’s sister—is exceptionally strong-willed. She’d have married Benjamin even if her family disowned her for it.” Draco paused to give Harry an ironic grin. “But at least he’s Jewish.”

Harry laughed. “They didn’t disown Noa, did they?”

“No. They might be pure-bloods, but they’re not as moronic as my family.”

Harry laughed again, but then his face grew serious. “Speaking of, er, disowning . . . I don’t suppose you’d be willing to meet your Aunt Andromeda? I know your mum’s not on speaking terms with her, but Andromeda’s grandchild—she’s caring for him, you know—is your second cousin or something.”

Draco rolled his eyes with an air of long-suffering. “Edward Remus Lupin is my first cousin once removed.”

“Oh.” Harry gave him a sheepish smile this time. “Well, they’re both your family. And Teddy’s my godson. He lost his parents in the war; it would be good for him to have more family about. Good for Andromeda too, probably.”

“I, er . . . “

For a moment, Harry was certain that Draco would make excuses.

But Draco squared his shoulders instead. “Harry, if you and my aunt are willing, I’d be honoured to meet them both.”

“I am, so I’ll see if I can arrange it.” Andromeda would agree, wouldn’t she? Harry wasn’t about to keep his boyfriend away from his godson. Especially when said boyfriend and godson were related.

“All right.”

“Meanwhile, um, why are we here, exactly?”

Draco did that thing with his eyebrows. “Your skill in legilimency leaves much to be desired. You know that, don’t you?”

Harry shot him a playful glare. “I suppose you have an important memory hidden here somewhere?”

“Several.”

“Do any of them involve Dobby?”

“No.”

Harry had expected that. This office didn’t seem a likely place for storing childhood memories about house elves, so those memories must be deeper down. Behind another password, no doubt. He opened his mouth to ask what sort of memories were here, but abruptly shut it again. He did have some training in legilimency, damn it. He would figure this out.

First thing: slow his breaths. Allow Draco’s memories, thoughts, feelings and impressions to fill his mind.

Suddenly flashes of Manhattan filled Harry’s head. For a few seconds he was standing on a pier opposite this city, looking up at the Twin Towers instead of out from them. He was squashed between Shira and Jamie, shaking his head in disbelief and going on and on about how ugly the towers were, objectively speaking. How shoddy the architecture was—just two long, narrow boxes.

But they _worked_ , Shira insisted.

And yes. As Harry looked up at those stupid, long, narrow boxes—feeling an awe that he was desperate to tamp down—he was forced to admit that they did. They anchored the skyline perfectly.

No, not Harry. This was Draco’s memory, and this was Draco critiquing the architecture of the Twin Towers. This was not a pensieve: Harry wasn’t just viewing Draco’s memory, he was living it.

He shook himself, and suddenly he was back in the offices of—what was this company called? Cantor Fitzgerald, right. For a moment, Harry was back in his own head. But he closed his eyes as another memory tugged at him; he could feel . . . Merlin, so many things at once. His head was swimming. But there was a warm hand on his shoulder, helping him find his centre again.

He opened his eyes to find himself right by one of the office windows, peering out over Manhattan from that dizzying and exhilarating height.

“Listen, Draco,” someone was saying.

“You don’t understand, Benj,” Harry sighed.

No, Draco sighed. This was Draco’s memory, Harry told himself again. He couldn’t choose his reactions or change anything; he could only embrace the memory as Draco had experienced it.

“I do understand,” Benjamin insisted, squeezing his shoulder. “Come over here.” He released Draco and started away from the window.

Harry could feel Draco’s gut clenching with a mixture of shame and self-revulsion, but he followed Benjamin to a quieter spot regardless.   

Draco was staring straight at Benjamin as they stopped, so Harry got a good look at him. He was in his late twenties, probably. A short, stocky man with pale skin, curly dark hair, and a pair of shrewd but kind brown eyes.

“No offense, Benj, but you really can’t understand.” Draco slouched against a wall.

Benjamin slouched right next to him and lowered his voice. “Look, I get this much: you fucked up. And you feel like an outcast in your world—”

“You don’t understand how badly I fucked up!” That came out as a harsh whisper.

“I think you’re wrong.” He spoke with what Harry recognised as a New York accent, although it wasn’t as exaggerated as the ones he’d heard on TV or in films.

“I’m not.”

Benjamin was silent for a moment, his face grim. “It doesn’t matter. Yeah, you should regret the stuff you did. But the regret, by itself, doesn’t help anyone. It’s not productive.”

“Thank you so much. So what the fuck am I supposed to do, then?”

Benj nudged him with his elbow. “Just don’t wallow in it. Use the regret for fuel instead. Use it to move forward.”

Harry’s mind was racing now. Draco having a muggle for a mate—all right, Harry could see that, given how many of his prejudices he’d shed. But going to a muggle for advice? Harry was dumbfounded.

In a good way. Yes, it was a fucking miracle that Draco had changed his opinion of muggles so much, and it was definitely a good thing.

“What if I can’t move forward?” Draco’s stomach was still clenched. “I can’t—I don’t know how to make amends in my . . . society. And I’d only make things worse if I tried.”

Benj shrugged. “No offense, but your society isn’t the only one in existence. It’s a real small one, in fact. There’s a much bigger world out there. So if you can’t find a way to help the one you fucked up in, find a way to help the one right in front of you.”

The words, put like that, sounded casual and matter-of-fact. But Harry felt each one—no, Draco felt each one etch itself into his brain.

Draco swallowed. “I don’t even know how to navigate your world.”

“You’re learning just fine.”

“And what would I do here? Not to heal it, I mean. Just to . . . exist in it.”

Benjamin rolled his eyes. “Get a job, like a normal person.”

“Work here with you?” Suddenly Draco’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Think Cantor Fitzgerald will hire me too? My CV is useless here.”

“You mean resume, right?” Benjamin crinkled his brow. “Well, for a job like this, you’d have get into a good college or university. And ace the right courses.”

“Muggle courses. I’m hopelessly behind.”

“No. I’ve seen some of what you guys do. We can catch you up. And you wouldn’t have to give up your, uh, special skills. Even some of the Baumgartens work regular jobs and just do that stuff on the side.”

Harry was having a hard time parsing through Draco’s emotions now. He could feel them just fine, but he couldn’t name them. Draco seemed to be somewhere between stunned and contemplative as he tried to absorb everything Benjamin was telling him.

Draco’s whole life was the wizarding world. Yeah, his parents taught him something of muggle politics and finances, because they considered such knowledge necessary to their own well-being. But, for all that, Draco was brought up with a severely limited world-view.

This conversation seemed to open his eyes and make him realise that there were opportunities in the muggle world, even for wizards. That the muggle world could be a place where even a wizard could build a life.

That must have been a staggering revelation for Draco.

“Done eavesdropping, Potter?”

Fuck. Harry felt himself trip out of the memory. He was back in the centre of the floor, in the midst of all the desks and office commotion. And Draco was still leaning against a desk opposite him, his arms folded across his chest.

Harry refused to feel any shame. “Yeah. For now.”

Draco huffed out a laugh, short and dry. “I thought you wanted to see my memories of Dobby?”

“I do. But I want . . . I want to know more about you too.”

He narrowed his eyes.

Harry was unimpressed. “Come off it, Malfoy. You could have kicked me out of those memories if you’d really wanted to. You’re much better at occlumency than I am at legilimency.”

His eyes lost their hard glare. “I could have done, yeah. But you being my lord and master and all—”

“Please stop. Do you want me out of your head? It’s all right if you do.”

Now those grey eyes were actually turning soft. “No. You’re right. I can block you from the memories I really want to keep private. So stay. Eavesdrop to your heart’s content.”

“How likely am I to figure out the next password?”

Draco considered that. “It’s another simple one, but highly unlikely, I’m afraid.”

Harry held out his hand.

After a moment, Draco took it. Not only took it, but pulled Harry into a hug as well. Harry didn’t fight him.

“I think I understand why Mr. Baumgarten didn’t disown Noa.” Draco rested his chin on top of Harry’s head. “He’s a decent man, despite any prejudice against mixed marriages.”

Draco didn’t say whether Mr. Baumgarten was prejudiced against wizard-muggle marriages, or Jewish-gentile marriages—so Harry assumed the answer was both. Well, as Draco mentioned earlier, at least Benj was Jewish. Presumably Mr. Baumgarten clung to that.

“And Mrs. Baumgarten—she would have been furious if he tried to disown Noa,” Draco continued. “There would have been a raging battle. But, fortunately, he values the concept of peace in the home.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s a Hebrew term for that, actually.”

“For peace in the home?” Harry nestled closer. The office continued to bustle around them, taking no notice. “So that’s the password? Much better than your last one.”

Draco kissed his hair and whispered in his ear. “ _Shalom bayit_.”


	20. Chapter 20

Draco watched as Harry landed softly, on his feet, in the sanctuary of the suburban and rather plain shul to which the Baumgartens belonged. He gave the man a moment to orient himself before tossing a yarmulke and hair clip at him.

Harry caught both easily and grinned. “You’ve got yours on already, I see. This is a synagogue, I take it?”

“Obviously.”

“Why’s it empty? The office was crammed with people.”

“Seriously Potter? You don’t think it’d be a bit awkward to discuss what we need to in the middle of services?”

“Stop sneering, Malfoy.” Harry clipped the yarmulke to his hair, still grinning. “It doesn’t always become you, you know.”

“It’s more out of habit than malice now—”

“I know.”

“—and I imagine it’s quite becoming, as you seem to want this relationship of ours to last.”

“I still want to wipe that sneer off your face.” Harry walked over to him and put his arms around Draco’s waist. “In a good way.”

Damn. Draco could feel his sneer transforming into a genuine smile. But it quickly faltered.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re here for a reason, Harry.” He took a step back. “And the memories I’ve hidden here . . . they’re not all pleasant.”

Harry cocked his head at him. “Why? You don’t dislike this place, do you?”

“No, quite the opposite.”

“I know.” He closed his eyes. “I can feel some of your memories, I think.”

Draco didn’t say anything.

Harry opened his eyes and just stared for a few moments. Then he walked down the aisle, pausing at one pew in particular before continuing on. When he reached the front of the sanctuary, he turned around and sat down on the first step of the bimah.  

Draco frowned at that, unsure of the etiquette involved. It was likely fine, though. The Ark was closed tight; you couldn’t see anything of the Torah scrolls inside.

Harry, meanwhile, was pointing at the pew that had caught his attention. “You’ve sat there, squashed between Benjamin and . . . and a woman I don’t recognise. Mrs. Baumgarten?”

“No, her sister—Shira’s Aunt Sarah. She’s the woman who taught me how to become an animagus.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. “This seems to be a . . . a frequent memory? You sitting there between Benjamin and Aunt Sarah, I mean. Oh, Jamie too?”

“Yes.”

“But not Shira?”

“No, she’s not fond of services. She’s not keen on anything religious, actually.”

“But Aunt Sarah is? Did she drag you three along with her? Is she especially devout or something?”

Draco laughed. “No. She's a fierce atheist. She likes the customs, though. And she lives to deconstruct and critique all the ‘patriarchal idiocy,’ as she calls it, in the Torah.”

Harry smiled at that. “What about Benjamin?”

“He is rather devout, actually. So is Jamie; I presume she’ll convert eventually. But they both find the patriarchal slant of scripture problematic as well.”

“That’s fair, I imagine.” Harry’s face turned serious. “Um, what about you, then?”

“You want my thoughts on the patriarchal history of the Abrahamic religions?”

“No.” He rolled his eyes, but then reconsidered. “Actually, that might be interesting sometime. Hermione will think so, anyway. But for now—are you devout, Draco? Are you even religious?”

Draco had been leaning sidelong against one of the pews, but he straightened up now and moved to join Harry on the step of the bimah.

Harry watched him sit down, blushing a bit. “It’s not a deal-breaker question, I promise.”

“I didn’t think it was.” Draco hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Dunno, really. I suppose I qualify as an agnostic.”

“But there’s more?” Harry was staring at him intently now.

Draco bit his lip, and then tried to explain in greater detail. “All our religions, I suspect, are human ways of grappling with each other, and with ourselves, and with however we see the Divine. But I don’t think that makes them wrong, exactly. They all have plenty of faults, of course, but  that said . . . well, I’ve grown used to the Jewish way of grappling. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, it does.” Harry fell quiet for a moment. A long moment. “I don’t think it answered my question, though. Or perhaps I asked the wrong one. I want to know how important this is to you? You were willing to convert in order to marry Shira, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Draco shrugged. “That’s one of the reasons I came so frequently; I had to get to know the rabbi and all. If Shira and I had agreed to marry, my plan was to move here after her brother’s bar mitzvah and start formal study for conversion.”

“So the wedding would have been here?”

“Yeah.”

“With a canopy and all that?”

“Yes. The chuppah, the breaking of a glass, people lifting us up on chairs at the reception—all of it.”

“I don’t suppose you’d have invited me. If all had gone according to plan, I mean.”

Draco frowned at him. “It wouldn’t have. Not according to my plan.”

“If we hadn’t met again, I mean. If everything had played out how it was supposed to.”

“Harry,” Draco spoke slowly now. “If everything had played out how it was supposed to, I’d have died in that explosion. I wouldn’t be alive to worry about anything else.”

He blanched. “I . . . I know that. I just meant—fuck, never mind.”

“First you came back for me in the Room of Hidden Things, or Room of Requirement or whatever we’re calling it. You risked your life to save mine.”

“And Goyle’s, in fairness.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten that Weasley and Granger saved his life. He ought to repay that debt.”

“Uh, not sure how Ron and Hermione would feel about that.”

Draco ignored that question and continued with his own line of thought. “But then you spoke up for me and my mother at the trials. And then—Circe, Harry, I still don’t even know how you found out I was Robards’ agent. Or how you knew I was in danger. But you saved my life again, risking your own again. Not to mention your career.”

Harry was still pale. “Look, Draco, I—”

“You need to understand this, Harry.” At the moment, Draco didn’t care that he was interrupting the man who was, rightfully, his master. “This life debt is legitimate for a reason. Without you, I’d be dead twice over, at least. I might keep stressing that it’s not legally or magically binding, but that’s just for Granger’s sake. And the public’s.”

Now Harry was staring at him. “But it’s not legally or magically binding.”

“No, not technically. But it’s real, Potter. Because if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here to worry about whether I should have invited you to my wedding—or whether you would have accepted.”

“I would have accepted,” Harry said at once. “I mean, if Robards had never blackmailed you into becoming an agent, and you had just come to New York to get away from the British wizarding community—”

“Perhaps. I’d have had to offer you my services at some point, however, for saving me from the fiendfyre. And that Death Eater just afterward. So I suppose you’d have had your chance to forbid the arranged marriage after all.”

“Wait. You always meant to offer me your services?”

“Yes. I just . . . wanted to choose my moment.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you do it right after the trials?”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. “Because we were, by my estimate, on rather uncertain terms. I had no idea how you’d react to such an offer.”

Harry shook his head, laughing a little. “Draco, I would never have refused the opportunity to put you under my thumb. Not from the day we met.”

Draco snorted. “I suppose I knew that much.”

“So you were just waiting until you could get the most from me in the bargain? Protect your parents, protect Malfoy Manor?”

“Well, I am a Slytherin.”

“A thick one, sometimes. If you had come to me after the trials, and told me that Robards was blackmailing you, I’d have protected all of you back then. And the manor. Your life would never have been at risk.”

“We’ve been over this, Potter. I didn’t know that! Not then. Not . . . not for certain.”

Harry sighed and shook his head again. “I feel as if we’ve wasted three years. Or maybe not; you obviously found yourself in New York.”

“Somewhat, yeah.”

“Tell me, then.” Harry looked him in the eye. “Now that your wedding to Shira is off, do you still want to convert?”

Did he? Draco blinked.

How was it possible that he had never considered this question? If he were the sort to use a word like ‘gobsmacked,’ that’s how he would describe himself at the moment.

Conversion and becoming a member of the Baumgarten family—to Draco, those two things were inextricably linked. But what if Potter were in this for the long term? He thought he was, of course, but what if he actually was in reality?

It would feel quite different, converting on his own and finding some London synagogue to join. The Baumgartens came with everything required, so to speak: built in places for Seders, Shabbat dinners, and the like. He and Shira would just subject themselves to the normal arguments: would Shabbat be a thing in their house? Should they send the kids to Hebrew school? And how much of Christmas should they celebrate with Draco’s parents?

“Draco?”

He shook himself. Harry was still staring at him with that intense gaze—though, to do him justice, it wasn’t judgmental or prying. It was more affectionate and genuinely curious.

“Dunno, Harry. I might do, but I haven’t thought about it yet. I’ve still been assuming that—”

“—that I would grow tired of you and you’d marry Shira after all?”

“Yeah.”

Harry sighed. “That’s not going to happen. You’re happy with me; she’s happy with Jamie. Neither of you need an arranged marriage.”

He sounded so fucking sure of himself. “Harry, you don’t understand—”

“You don’t get a say in this, Draco. Not unless you want to cancel this debt to me.”

“No!” Draco felt his shoulders tighten. “The debt is real and permanent, Harry. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. There is no cancelling it.”

“I agree.”

Draco stared at him, not bothering to hide his surprise.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, the life debt is permanent. But we do have the power to change the terms on which you pay it off. We already have done; that's why I can forbid the marriage, remember?"

“That’s true.” Draco knew his tone was reluctant. “But I don’t want to change the terms again. Do you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, that’s sorted. No arranged marriage for me. Unless you change your mind come September.”

Harry took his hand. “I won’t.”

Draco made a non-committal response.  

“Look, whatever you decide about all this”—Harry waved his other hand, presumably indicating not only the shul but the whole question of conversion—”is all right with me. I’ll support you.”

“I dunno if—Harry, I need time to think this through. And I don’t even know if you’re religious. Did those muggles bring you up to be a proper Anglican? Or a proper anything else?”

“God, no. The Dursleys only went to services on Christmas and Easter. I don’t know about my parents, though . . . huh.”

“What?”

“I just realised. I don’t even know what religion my parents were. Probably Church of England?”

“I don’t know about your mother, but your father’s family was a mixture of Anglicans and dissenters—chapel types, I think. And he had one branch of Hindu ancestors, of course. I think your Dad himself was Anglican, though I’ve no idea if that was just nominally.”

“I don’t even know if they had me christened.”

“They must have done, don’t you think? Sirius Black was your godfather. You generally acquire godparents at your christening. Unless they did something more informal.”

“I should look into it, I suppose.” Harry was furrowing his brow now. “Not that it matters; I might somewhat believe in—um, well something. But I’m not attached to any particular religion, so I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

Draco smiled at that. It would all prove rather more complicated, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“Meanwhile, though, I’m still confused about something.” Harry leaned back a bit with the air of someone about to turn the subject. “You have loads of good memories here, I think, even if some of them involve quarrels—”

“They weren’t quarrels!”

Harry gave him a look of polite disbelief.

“They weren’t,” Draco insisted. “They were well-reasoned arguments on religion, politics and all other verboten topics.”

“Right.” Harry closed his eyes for a moment, as if reaching for those memories. When he opened them again, he gave Draco a pointed look. “They were very loud and fierce well-reasoned arguments, then.”

“Yes, well.” He blushed. “You legilimency is improving, because most of those took place in the social hall, not in the sanctuary.”

“But they did take place?”

“Er, yes. But that’s expected in American synagogues. I might have gotten carried away once or twice—especially as one of the very few political conservatives in this shul—but it’s all part of the culture, I assure you.”

“Of course it is.” Harry was obviously mocking him. In an affectionate way, but still.

“Are you quite done?”

“No. I still don’t understand where, exactly, you keep your bad memories—or why you keep them here.”

“To answer your first question, I keep them in this building but outside of the sanctuary. They’re locked away in various classrooms downstairs, but I’ll let you enter the room that will show you Dobby. As for the second question—fuck, I don’t know how to explain this.”

Harry squeezed his hand. “Go on. It’ll start making sense as you say it.”

“Doubt that. But here goes: despite all the loud, well-reasoned arguments, this is still a place for contemplation, yeah?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“So this is where I, er, contemplated a lot of the things I’ve done. And a lot of the things that were done to me. Mostly by other Death Eaters, I mean.”

“Oh.” Harry looked weirdly crushed on Draco’s behalf. “Of course, yeah. That makes sense.”

Draco inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his diaphragm so he could focus on finding the words he needed. “One of my chief sins, Harry, is jealousy. Or coveting, perhaps. Or both, I suppose. I always, you know, coveted your power, your skill as a seeker, the friendships you formed, the attention you attracted . . . and your courage. God, I wanted your courage. I made myself sick with envy sometimes. Literally sick to the point of vomiting.”

Harry shifted and put his arm around him. The warmth of him felt good, but Draco still couldn’t look him in the eye.

“I don’t have your courage, Harry.” Draco swallowed. “Not even a tenth of it. I never did. Just remember that when you see my memories of Dobby.”

“I will.” There was still no judgment in his voice, but there was suddenly an odd sort of determination. “We’re not going to see those memories yet, though. I need to tell you about . . . about my link with Voldemort. And how it broke.”

Draco felt his eyes go wide. He bit back any response, though. He was not about to risk ruining this moment.

Harry managed a sour smile. “A sanctuary seems like a weirdly good place to do this.”


	21. Chapter 21

Ron entered his flat as quietly as he could, careful not to turn on a light or cast Lumos in case Hermione was already sleeping. It wasn’t his fault that Hermione left a pile of books right where he would trip over them—although, arguably, he was responsible for the weights he managed to stub his toe on.

“Ron?” Hermione’s voice floated from the bedroom.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He made it to the bed without further incident, sat down on it, and toed off his trainers.

Hermione must’ve reached for her wand, because a moment later she had summoned a warm glow of light. “Should I ask how it went?”

He pulled off his tee-shirt. “There’s no changing Mum’s mind—not right now. She won’t have Malfoy at the Burrow. Dad has her back, of course. And Percy’s making everything worse.”

“Percy?” Hermione blinked as she sat up and drew her knees to her chest.

“Yeah, the grand prick himself.” Ron shook his head. “He went on and on about how a Death Eater like Draco Malfoy should never cross the threshold of the Burrow, that he’s directly responsible for what happened to Bill—which, all right, is true—that he as good as killed Dumbledore—”

“Which is not true.”

“Right. But not a word about me, mind. Percy completely forgot that Malfoy almost killed me with that poison. Accidentally, but still.”

Hermione blanched. Then she asked, rather hesitantly, “Have you forgiven Draco for that?”

Had he? Forgive felt like a strong word, considering.

“Conditionally.” Ron shrugged. “He did dangerous work for the aurors. Not by choice, but it still counts for something.”

“Hagrid’s angry because he didn’t serve any time in Azkaban.”

“I'm not. That undercover work was probably worse. Anyway, he tried to apologise to me, but I didn’t want to hear it. I told him we were okay, as long as he doesn’t disappoint you or Harry.”

She reached out and squeezed his arm.

“And, really, me and Bill are the ones who have the most reason to kick the ferret’s arse. Out of my family, I mean. And you—”

“I’m not ready to hear him apologise either.”

“But you’re obviously okay with him.” Ron grinned despite himself. “At least judging by all the flirting you two do. And I’ll say this for him: I think that’s genuine on his part.”

“Ronald! It’s harmless. He’s gay. And I would never—”

“Merlin, Hermione, I know that.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not acting like a jealous maniac, am I? No, I just meant that he really admires you. He’s not just sucking up the way he used to with our professors.”

She was flattered. The ferret was boosting her ego—in a good way, Ron thought. Malfoy finally appreciated Hermione properly. And respected her properly. The git really was over his prejudices against muggle-borns.

“Anyway,” Ron continued as he stripped down to his boxers, “Percy kept going on about Malfoy. It’s as if he’s forgotten all about how he betrayed us himself, how he made our mum cry, and how he turned on Harry. He was an absolute ass for years.”

Hermione sighed. “In fairness, he didn’t poison anyone or allow Death Eaters and a werewolf into Hogwarts.”

“True.” Ron climbed into bed. “But our ferret had a shit upbringing, you know?”

“Our ferret?” Hermione let the light die out as she snuggled into Ron’s arms. “He’s not a pet, Ronald—”

“He’s sort of Harry’s pet—”

“—and you sound as if you’re getting attached to him.”

Ron shifted to pull her closer. “I like him better all subservient and repentant. Hell, right now I like him better than Percy.”

She chuckled. “You still love your brother. He's just—”

“No, let me finish. Malfoy’s parents brought him up all wrong. They indoctrinated him into all that pure-blood superiority and Death Eater bullshit. But Percy was brought up the right way. So what’s his excuse for siding with a corrupt ministry all that time—against his own family?”

She kissed his cheek. “Percy always comes around in the end. But how do you intend to handle your parents?”

“I think I can convince them to come to Grimmauld Place for dinner with Harry and Malfoy.”

“Keep Percy out of it.”

“Hell, yeah. If everything goes well, my parents will return the invitation and allow Malfoy to come to the Burrow. And Harry never has to know that they didn’t want him there at first.”

“What about Bill and George? Oh, and Ginny?”

“Bill and George are both willing to talk with Malfoy. George is expecting some grovelling, though.”

Hermione sniffed. “Well, I’m sure Draco is still good at sucking up.”

Ron huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. I’m going to bring him to the shop when they’ll both be there. But I, um, haven’t spoken with Ginny yet. Or Charlie.”

“Does Ginny know that Harry and Draco are, er—”

“Boyfriends? No, Harry can tell her that himself.”

“What about the rest of your family?”

“They know. And, yes, Harry and Malfoy knew I was going to break it to them.”

She stifled a yawn—she’d probably been up late dealing with SPEW issues. “Perhaps Harry can invite your parents to dinner at Grimmauld Place next week, when Draco’s friends are there? Your mum always keeps her temper in front of strangers.”

“Yeah, good thinking. They might know scions of the Baumgarten family, actually. I don’t think they know about the arranged marriage idea, though.”

“Arranged marriage?” Suddenly Hermione sounded wide awake.

Fuck. Hermione didn’t know about that yet. How could Ron have forgotten that? He was too used to telling her everything, that’s how.

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “Draco’s parents and Shira’s parents wanted them to marry for the sake of producing pure-blood children. They thought it would work out because both of them are gay.”

“That’s a ridiculous idea!” She was sitting up again. “I’m glad they refused.”

Ron swallowed. He could just nod in agreement, and let it go at that. But Hermione would hear the whole story sooner or later, either from Harry or Malfoy. And she’d be furious that Ron didn’t confide in her.

Of course, she’d probably be more furious with Harry. At heart, she still didn’t respect the life debt. She might not like the way pure-blood parents arranged marriages for their children, but she would hate the way Harry forbade Draco’s marriage. She didn’t understand that he had the right to.

Still, Ron would hear it too. If she asked his opinion, he wasn’t going to lie: Harry had every right to control Malfoy’s life, both because of the life debt and because it was what Malfoy wanted. If he didn’t want it, he could walk away.

Ron sighed, deciding to delay this particular battle. “There’s a bit more to the story than that, but it’ll keep till morning.”

“But—”

“Come’ere.” He pulled her down on top of him and kissed her soundly. “I don’t want to spend the whole night talking about Harry’s problems. Or the ferret’s.”

She bit his lip playfully. “Trying to distract me?”

“Oh yeah.” He kissed her again, holding her tighter this time. “And I promise you, it will work.”

 

->*<-

 

Harry knew Draco.

He knew what Draco looked like when he was showing off. He knew what Draco looked like when he was sucking up. He knew what Draco looked like when he was mocking someone—usually someone he considered inferior—and enjoying it.

He knew what Draco looked like when he was brooding. He knew what Draco looked like when he was terrified. He knew what Draco looked like when he was furious. He knew what Draco looked like when he was frustrated.

He knew what Draco looked like in the middle of a breakdown too: Harry would never forget the sight of him sobbing in the bathroom or the haunted quality of his voice, despite his forced bravado, as he tried to bring himself to perform the killing curse on Dumbledore.

Harry had memorised all those expressions back in school. Now he had many more to add: he knew what Draco looked like when he put on an act, pretending not to care about his fate. Harry had seen that particular expression in Azkaban: he remembered the nonchalant mask Draco had worn as he tried to convince Harry that he was coping just fine before his trial, thank you very much.

He knew what Draco looked like when he was genuinely amused—when there was no cruelty mixed in with his laughter. He knew what Draco looked like when he was . . . aroused. And when he was satiated afterward.

He knew what Draco looked like when he felt proud of some accomplishment. And when he felt safe and content. And when he felt grateful. And when he was annoyed with Harry in a good-natured, exasperated way.

He even knew Draco’s expressions when he was in his twitchy ferret form. He could tell when the adorable little furball was angry, playful, curious, sleepy, or, again, when he felt safe and content.

But this was a first. Harry had ever seen Draco like this: grey eyes narrowed, not in judgment, but in a combination of curiousity and concentration. His entire body tense with focus as he paid heed to each word Harry spoke.

Was this the look Draco had worn whilst working on the vanishing closet? Was that combination of curiosity and concentration—with a healthy dollop of determination too—what made him so good at magic that required time and patience?

Perhaps. Harry stopped looking him in the eye as he continued his story. They were still sitting in the sanctuary of the synagogue, on steps that led up to a raised platform. Since they were side-by-side, Harry could look down the aisle, or even at the floor, without appearing rude or frightened.

In truth, he was terrified. He didn’t know which would be worse: Draco telling him that what happened with Dumbledore at King’s Cross had simply been some sort of near-death experience, or Draco suddenly looking at him as if he were, well, some sort of holy walking miracle.

When Harry finally finished, Draco didn’t say a word. Harry summoned the courage to look him in the face, only to find him gazing thoughtfully toward the pews.

“Well?” Harry asked.

Draco still didn’t answer—not straight away. He seemed to suck in a lung’s worth of air before finally deigning to speak.

“That you were, yourself, a horcrux was always a possibility,” he said at last. “It was the only answer that adequately explained that strange connection between you and Voldemort. We all discounted it, in my family at least, because—well, to destroy said horcrux, you would have had to have died, just as Nagini had to die.”

“I did have to die. And Dumbledore knew it.” Harry smiled a little, knowing full well the smile was a bit sour. “You know Snape gave me his memories as he was dying?”

“Yes.” Draco nodded. “That’s how you knew for certain that he had remained loyal to Dumbledore; that’s how you exonerated him. Posthumously.”

“Right. Well, those memories also let me see the truth: that Dumbledore suspected I was the final horcrux all along. Or for a long while, anyway. He knew I would have to die. He knew that . . . that my lifespan was measured by the remaining horcruxes. That with each one I destroyed, I was shortening my own life.”

Draco’s voice turned cautious. “And you . . . you don’t resent him for that?”

“No. I never did, really. It was all necessary; we had to defeat Riddle. Voldemort, I mean.”

“I know his birth-name. A few of the histories mention it.”

“Good. It should be better known. It seems more real than the made up one.” Harry took a deep breath as he stared back down at the floor. “So I walked into the forest and . . . and I died. But then I was given a choice. Riddle was still a threat. I hadn’t destroyed the horcrux in Nagini. So I was allowed to, er, come back.”

“And finish the job?”

“Yes. Though I didn’t finish it alone. You know Neville beheaded Nagini in the end. And once that horcrux was destroyed, there must have been a way to defeat Riddle even without—”

“Without my wand?”

“Yeah.”

Draco huffed out a sigh. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you decided to return to us.”

Harry looked up. “So you believe me?”

“Yes.” He sounded matter-of-fact now. “You being an unintentional horcrux fits the facts perfectly. When you died, so did the horcrux in you. Then you were, er, allowed to come back. I’m only surprised that . . . .” Draco paused. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, tell me.”

He shrugged. “I’m a bit surprised Dumbledore met you at King’s Cross. It should have been your parents. Or your godfather. If they could appear to you as you walked into the forest, why couldn't they explain it all? Why the man who brought you up as a sacrificial lamb?”

Harry counted to five before answering. “I know the worst about him, all right? I’m not an idiot.”

Draco sneered. “And no doubt you think that I, of all people, have no right to judge him?”

“You really don’t.” Harry gave him a pointed look. “But I do understand. I wasn’t the only sacrifice he was willing to make. He was the greatest wizard of his age; he could have told you at the beginning of sixth year that the Order could hide you and your mum from Voldemort. Instead, he let you play your hand—”

“So that Severus could do the deed and end his life as planned, thrusting him even higher in the dark lord’s favour.”

“Right. And he risked you accidentally killing Ron and Katie in your idiotic attempts to assassinate him.” He hesitated. “Ron’s the one who worked out all that about Dumbledore, actually. He’s not so fond of the man’s memory anymore.”

“Can’t say I blame him. Though I suppose it’s just as well that his memory is a blessing for you.”

Harry quirked his eyebrows at that. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes.” The sneer was gone from Draco’s face now. Mostly. “He was important to you. To me he was . . . well, a great man—yes, it pains me to say so, but it is true. But he was far too ruthless to have been placed in charge of a school.”

“Draco.” Harry put a warning note in his voice.

“So sorry, Master.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Who am I that I should criticise the man I tried to assassinate? Were he alive, I would clearly not be fit to lick his boots.”

All right. Harry had to chuckle at his rough mixture of sincerity and exaggeration. But he still didn’t think Draco had a right to posthumously take Dumbledore to task.

Was he being unfair? Harry honestly didn’t know. So he tried for a compromise. “You can speak your mind about him here, but for the sake of our relationship I don’t think we should let him come up too often.”

“Oh, I don’t have much more to say. Except that he really should have been sorted into Slytherin, don’t you think? He was ruthless in his quest to destroy the dark lord. And it was an ambitious quest as well.”

Harry found himself grinning at that. “Perhaps. Or maybe we’ve all got a bit of each house in us.”

“Dunno about that. I certainly lack the reckless courage of you Gryffindors.” He paused to narrow his eyes again. “But I’ll be brave enough to ask this: why have you kept this secret? To protect Dumbledore’s reputation?”

“No.” Harry shook his head decisively. “Dumbledore might even want the truth to be told; he knew his shortcomings.”

Draco shifted until he was leaning back against the railing, fully facing Harry. “So why hide the facts? Why allow all the speculation to continue?”

“Don’t you dare make fun of me when I tell you why,” Harry warned. “Or tell me what an inflated ego I have.”

“Interesting.” Draco looked intrigued. “I can’t promise that, of course, but you’re within your rights to punish me appropriately if I do.”

Fuck. That answer shot straight to Harry’s groin. “Er, what did you have in mind, then?”

Now he was grinning wickedly. “Potter, we are not having this discussion in a sanctuary.”

Harry blushed. “Right. Sorry.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I came back from the dead, Draco. I don’t want anyone thinking . . . well, you know.”

“You don’t want people worshipping the saviour more than they already do?”

“No, I really don’t.”

"They might attribute you coming back to the resurrection stone."

"And that's something else I don't want: people knowing that's real. I don't want them searching for it." Harry swallowed. “You don’t really see me that way, do you? As some sort of saviour?”

“Of course I do. A moronic saviour, obviously, but still both my personal saviour and the saviour of our British wizarding community.”

The 'moronic' bit surprised a laugh out of Harry. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, but don’t let it go to your head.” He paused, furrowing his brow. “I don’t mean it in a religious sense.”

“Thank God! I don't want to be treated like a messiah or something.”

Draco snorted. “You're definitely not the messiah or second coming or anything, Potter. You haven't brought about world peace or justice for all or ushered us all into some perfected world to come. Not last time I checked."

Harry felt his whole body relax a bit. He even smiled again. 

"But I'll accept that there was some miracle involved when you died in the forest and then returned to us. Through the power of the stone or . . . whatever. I’m grateful for that miracle, but I don’t intend to overthink it.”

"Um, okay." That was as good a way of expressing it as any, Harry supposed. He was grateful too, in fact. But Draco was probably right. Best not to think too hard about it. "But if people knew what really happened, they would—”

“Treat you as if you really are the second coming?" Draco grinned. “All right, I understand why you want to keep this quiet. We don’t need anyone seriously worshipping you or seriously attempting to lick your trainers. Again, not more than they already do.”

“Tosser.” Harry gave him an affectionate punch to the shoulder. “So you promise not to repeat any of this? You can discuss it with Ron and Hermione; they already know. But no one else does.”

“I promise.” He pushed himself up to a standing position. “Are you finally ready to see those memories of Dobby?”

Shit. That’s why they were here in the first place—Harry had nearly forgotten.

He was ready, he supposed, yet he suspected there were other memories locked away here that were more important. Memories that might even shed light on why Draco could no longer apparate or why he thought he couldn’t cast a patronus.

But Harry didn’t say any of that out loud. Instead, he simply nodded as he climbed to his feet. Then he allowed Draco to lead him out of the sanctuary.


	22. Chapter 22

Harry followed Draco toward the back of the sanctuary, his mind racing. Thus far, Draco had been surprisingly open about his past, allowing Harry to peer into his—which was the right word to describe it? Rebirth, yeah. His rebirth in New York.

But those had been positive memories. Now they would be passing into more negative ones; presumably ones dealing with grief and guilt and trauma.

Draco paused briefly at the threshold of the sanctuary and put his hand on some sort of decorative thing on the doorpost, as if he were in the habit of doing so and wasn’t really thinking about it. Then he put his hand to his mouth. Harry wasn’t sure if he should follow suit, so he just passed through.

They walked into a large room with lots of round tables, big enough to seat eight or ten each. The social hall, apparently. This must be where Draco had gotten into all those arguments about religion, politics and any other inflammatory topic.

Harry found himself grinning. Draco wasn’t too protective of these memories, because without any serious effort Harry could all but live them. It was as if he were at the table with Draco and a host of people Harry didn’t recognise. One argument seemed to concern U.S. presidential primaries. That must have been sometime before the 2000 election, then. Even Harry, who purposely and resolutely remained ignorant of both magical and muggle politics, knew that George W. Bush was now president of the United States.

Draco, even though he couldn't vote in the states, favoured a Republican named McCain, who seemed to be a war hero of some sort. There was one other conservative at the table: a squarish, middle-aged woman who was backing Bush for the Republican party.

She reminded Harry weirdly of Umbridge. Not in temperment; this woman didn't seem fake or cruel. And though her build was different, she definitely had Umbridge's face. But it was much less toad-like on this lady.

Harry didn't leap to any ludicrous conclusions. He knew this wasn't some long lost relative of Umbridge's. One thing he had learnt as an auror was that there were only so many faces in the world. They repeated endlessly, in slight variations.

Anyway, she and Draco were now setting aside their differences. As the only political conservatives at the table, they had to stick together to fend off the arguments that the liberals were putting together.

Now Harry knew for certain how loud and fierce those arguments had become. Yet Harry still couldn’t sense any negative feelings here, so Draco had probably enjoyed them immensely.

Had he known that Draco was so keen on debates? The good kind, where there was no ill-will on his part and no intention to humiliate anyone?

He hadn't, not really. He should have guessed it, though. Especially considering some recent conversations. But there was still a great deal Harry had to learn about Draco.

Harry would have lingered in that room for ages, but soon they were headed downstairs toward a foyer, a couple of small offices, and a few short hallways of what must be the classrooms.

After all the noise and hustle of the Cantor Fitzgerald office—and even the noise of Draco’s memories upstairs—the synagogue seemed too quiet. Eerily so. Harry knew what it should be like: he could catch glimpses of Draco’s memories of these hallways. Children weaving in and out of classrooms in chatty gaggles whilst adults—some laughing good-naturedly, others looking harassed and put upon—either supervised or clustered together to discuss committee business.

That’s what it should be like. Why did Draco keep it so silent and sterile in his mind?  

Harry shook his head, dismissing that question, and focused on the hallway. The classroom doors were all closed. There were no knobs, Harry noticed, even though they were built for them. Apparently Draco had removed them in his head. Harry tried pushing and tugging at one of the doors, but it wouldn’t budge.

“They’re protected by passwords, Harry.” Draco kept walking as he spoke, not even bothering to glance behind.

Right. These were Draco’s private memories. He wasn’t willing to share here, except for the ones connected to Dobby.

Yet he hesitated. There was something about this door in particular. Something in Harry's gut told him to stop here, that whatever memory was hidden inside was especially important.

Harry focused on the door. He had no idea what password Draco would use. Besides, Draco was almost at the end of the hall, about to turn the corner. He had to catch up. But as he started to move, he caught the faintest whiff of the memory.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, as if there were iron bands around his chest, as if he were pressed hard from all directions—

Fuck, he was apparating. Or Draco was, anyway, in the memory. But it wasn’t just bad in the way that apparating in general was bad.  It was worse, because of what would happen at the destination point . . . .

Light exploded in the hallway. A painful light that struck Harry full on, lifting him up and hurling him to the floor.

The legilimency spell was broken. Draco had expelled Harry from his mind.

He opened his eyes cautiously, knowing he was back in the real world. Flat on his back, on his bedroom floor.

Draco was standing over him with a scowl on his face. “What the hell was that, Potter?”

Shit. He had to apologise. He had overstepped. Draco had a right to be angry.

“Draco, I just . . . .” He let the words trail off as he pushed himself up.

“You just what?” He didn’t offer Harry a hand.

“I’m sorry, Draco.” Harry was on his feet now. “I shouldn’t have . . . I shouldn’t have been prying. I was wrong, but—”

“But you thought you had a fucking right to, didn’t you?” Draco snorted as he turned his face away to glare at the wall. “It’s like sixth year again, isn’t it?”

What? That made no sense. “No! I wasn’t stalking you. We were in this together.”

But Draco wasn’t paying him any attention. “I still remember coming across you right before a match. You must have been running late, but somehow you made time to harass me. You asked me where I was going as if it were your business. As if I owed you an answer.”

Harry knew he was at fault for prying, but he couldn’t stop a bit of anger from boiling up. “You were plotting to assassinate Dumbledore. To let those Death Eaters into Hogwarts. That was my fucking business!”

Draco turned back to stare at him and then huffed out a laugh. “My bad, I suppose. I should have confessed everything to you right then.”

Somehow that laugh and that bit of muggle slang—even though both were mixed with a classic Malfoy sneer—cut through the tension. “I wish you had. I would have . . . I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Cast Sectumsempra rather earlier, I expect.”

“No!”

Draco raised his eyebrows in polite disbelief.

“I don’t think I had even read the spell at that point,” Harry explained, sounding lame even to himself. “And if you really were willing to confess, I wouldn't have attacked you.”

“Doesn’t matter, I suppose.” Draco shook his head and then, after a ragged breath, took a seat on the bed. “All those classrooms you saw—Harry, I told you. I keep them locked for a reason.”

“I know.” He walked over and knelt in front of Draco. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just . . . I caught a whiff of that memory and then I couldn’t let it go. And I wasn’t trying to puzzle out your password or anything like that.”

Draco curled his lip. “But you managed to break into that memory regardless. Either you’re much better at legilimency than I ever imagined, or I’m losing my touch with occlumency.”

Harry thought it would be a good thing if Draco did lose his touch. To lock away so many of his memories like that—so much of himself—couldn’t be healthy. But he knew in his gut that Draco hadn’t lost his touch at all.

“Draco, you’re brilliant at occlumency. And as for legilimency, I’m—”

“As powerful and undisciplined as you are in every other branch of magic?”

Harry gave him what he hoped was a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah.”

Draco only grunted.

“But I know that memory was about apparating.” Harry placed his hands on Draco’s knees. “And about landing somewhere you didn’t want to be.”

“I’m not discussing this.”

“Sure about that? I don’t think I could have accessed that memory if you hadn’t, on some level, wanted me to.”

“Oh, you accessed plenty of memories that I didn’t intend to share with you.”

“Those were different. They were good memories. You didn’t mind me seeing them. You weren’t even trying to protect them. Not really.”

Draco glared down at him. “Thank you for assuming you understand what’s going on in my head better than I do.”

Harry laughed and then reached for Draco’s hands. “I don’t in general, but I’m right about this. You don’t have to admit it now, but I am.”

“Careful. You’re sounding as if you think you’re entitled to all my thoughts.”

“Perhaps.” Harry winked. “I do own you, Malfoy.”

“You don’t own my memories.”

“Pretty sure your memories are a part of you.” He kept his voice light and teasing.

“I’m still not sharing that one.”

“Look, just think it over.” Harry raised both his hands to his lips and kissed them. Which might have been a stupid, over-the-top gesture, but Draco didn’t call him on it. “If you talk that memory out, maybe we’ll discover why you won’t apparate.”

He tensed. “Can't, not won’t.”

“I don't believe that—”

“I don't care what you believe! You have no right to poke around in my mind.”

Harry fell silent. Draco was right. Well, half-right, perhaps. Harry had a responsibility to keep him safe, and that meant, in part, ensuring that he could apparate out of a dangerous situation.

But that wasn’t an excuse. Harry had overstepped. Why did he always go overboard where Malfoy was concerned?

“I'm sorry. I was wrong, full stop. I want to take care of you. I want to know that you can always apparate to safety. So I thought if I could see what's holding you back . . . .”

“Well, you’re not going to see it. Even if it would do any good, which it won’t—”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know you’re not my fucking therapist, Potter. I’m not going to discuss this with you.”

Shit. That was fair. Harry wasn’t a therapist. Was that what Draco needed?

The wizarding world seemed painfully behind the muggles when it came to therapy; that had become obvious for everyone in the aftermath of the war. At least they were finally starting to take the muggle disciplines of psychology and psychiatry seriously.

But Draco could hardly discuss apparating with a muggle, could he? No, he needed a qualified therapist with some connection to the wizarding world. A muggle-born, perhaps? Or maybe some muggle with a wizard or witch for a family member?

“I expect you to make this up to me,” Draco announced.

Harry stared at him as his thoughts on therapy and therapists seemed to scatter. “Pardon?

“I expect you to make this up to me.”

“And I expect you to learn to apparate and to cast a patronus.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I agreed to allow you to teach me. It’s not my fault you’ve been procrastinating.”

“I’m not procrastin—fuck.” Harry let go of him and pushed up to his feet. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, enjoying, however briefly, the sensation of looking down at Draco, who was still seated on the bed.

It was just possible, Harry realised, that he resented Draco for being taller than him.

Draco, meanwhile, did not look much impressed. “It’s not my fault you haven’t initiated your lessons. And that lack of lessons has nothing to do with you trying to barge into a private memory of mine.”

“I wasn’t barging!”

“Really, Harry? Are you honestly going to begrudge me a little revenge?”

“Fine.” He swallowed. This could go very, very wrong. “What do you want?”

“What are you willing to offer me?”

“Awesome make-up sex?”

Draco stared at him for a long moment, his lips twitching. At length he gave into the laughter. “Very well.”

Harry blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Wait. Are you saying you’ll settle for make-up sex?”

Draco did that thing with his eyebrows. “Are you saying sex with you is only worth ‘settling’ for?”

“No!” Shit. Harry could feel his face heating up. Why was he making such a mess of this? “No. I mean it will be . . . I mean, it’s just not enough. I know I fucked up, Draco. If you want your bit of revenge, there has to be more to it than make-up sex.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, without getting up, Draco reached out, took Harry by the waist and tugged him in, until Harry was standing between his legs.

For a moment, Harry couldn’t breathe. Or perhaps he forgot to breathe. Or perhaps he forgot how to breathe.

He just stared down at Draco, remembering that all faces repeated in nature, that if there were really a Creator, that Being had only made so many, and so somewhere out there was another man who was as pointy and angular as Draco—and just as hot. But that person would never do that thing with his eyebrows or laugh the same way or master the Malfoy sneer. And he would never belong to Harry the way Draco did.

“Fine,” Draco said, breaking into Harry’s thoughts. “Apart from the make-up sex, I demand that you confess everything to Granger. I want it on record, so to speak, that you overstepped your boundaries tonight, even if you are my master.”

Harry felt his shoulders tense. “Why do you need it on record?”

Draco shrugged. “A precaution, Potter. I might need to build a case against your tyrannical tendencies. And while you’re busy with Granger, I’ll need to borrow Weasley.”

“Er, what for?”

“I need his advice on something, that’s all.”

Harry put his hands on Draco’s shoulders. He knew he couldn’t ask what sort of advice—that would be overstepping again. “Why Ron? I thought you’d be much more likely to ask Hermione.”

“No.” Draco shook his head. “Weasley respects the life-debt between us. Granger doesn’t, so I can’t go to her with this.”

The tension in Harry’s shoulders began to spread. “You need advice about the life debt? Draco, are you—do you want to forget about it?”

Draco let out a long suffering sigh. A seriously exaggerated one. “If I wanted to forget about it or cancel it or anything like that, obviously I’d go to Granger. She hates the whole concept of it. I’m going to Weasley because he understands it and approves of it.”

“Oh, right.”

And at that moment, it struck him. All this time, Harry had been telling himself that the life-debt was something optional between them. Something superfluous to their relationship that they could let go if Draco outgrew it.

But looking down at Draco, especially after this cock-up, he knew the truth. He wanted to own him, he wanted that responsibility . . . and he wasn’t sure how their relationship would work without the life-debt as part of it.

And that was all right, wasn’t it? Draco wanted it too. Consenting adults and all that. It didn’t mean that Harry was power-mad or anything. He wasn’t like Tom Riddle.

Still, he didn’t relish the idea of confessing his mistake tonight to Hermione. And he couldn’t quite explain why his stomach was churning at the thought.

“Harry, whatever you’re thinking, stop.” Draco tugged him closer, encircling him in his arms. “You’re only duty tonight is to show me just how good you are at make-up sex.”

That startled a laugh from Harry. He wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders and grinned down at him. “Right.”

“Well? I’m waiting for you to get started. You’ve got a lot to prove.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” He kissed the top of Draco’s head, still grinning despite himself. “Knowing you’ll be judging my every move won’t add any pressure at all.”

“I’m not worried.” Draco let himself fall backward on the bed, dragging Harry on top of him. “I hear you’re really good under pressure.”

Harry laughed again and put all thoughts of life-debts and confessions out of his head. Plenty of time for that horror show tomorrow. Right now, the warmth of Draco's skin and the cool-yet-aroused look in his grey eyes reminded him that they still had so many new things to try together. And Harry had the remainder of the night to make a dent in that particular list. 


	23. Chapter 23

_The worst part of it was the determination required._

_Destination—that presented no problems. Draco had known that secluded cottage his whole life. He had played there as a child and could picture it vividly in his mind. Even after Voldemort seized Malfoy Manor, it had remained something of a refuge. Until  . . . until the peculiar way circumstances forced him to share it._

_Deliberation—yes, Draco could manage that. He could reach inside himself, turn on the spot, and step into nothingness, knowing he would arrive where he intended to. Knowing how necessary it was. His parents’ position under the Dark Lord was precarious now. He must do anything within his power to ensure their protection, and sucking up, quite literally, to a more favoured Death Eater earned them all a bit of a reprieve._

_But to summon the determination to go there, knowing what he would have to do, knowing he must pretend to enjoy it . . . Draco felt bile rise in his throat. He couldn’t do this. Not today. Maybe not ever again. He couldn’t keep apparating there, he couldn’t keep hiding the whole thing from his father, who, no matter what he pretended, would blame himself. He wouldn’t go. Not this time. No matter what—_

Draco woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding in his ears.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His hands were clammy. His face felt hot and sweaty. And his stomach was churning.

But it was just a nightmare. A distorted memory, really.

The war was over. Voldemort was gone, permanently. Draco was safe in Grimmauld Place, in Harry's bed. And Harry himself was snoring softly at his side. Or had been, a moment ago. Now he was yawning and stretching his arms out toward Draco, looking to tug him closer.

“Don’t!” The last thing Draco wanted was Harry touching him when he was like this.

The bed shifted as Harry sat up. Suddenly a warm light surrounded them both; Draco found himself squinting.

Apparently Harry could cast Lumos silently and without a wand. Of course he could; why was Draco so surprised? The man was undoubtedly the most powerful wizard alive at the moment, however raw and undisciplined his magic.

“Come here, Draco.” Harry put his hands on Draco’s arms and tugged again. Gently.

“But—”

“That’s an order.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be tugged. If the idiot scarhead wanted clammy skin against his own, so be it.

Harry's arms wrapped around him and Harry's lips brushed against his forehead, heedless of the sweat. “You stole all the blankets again,” he whispered.

That was, oddly, the most comforting thing Harry could have said. It even surprised a laugh out of Draco.

“Is that what woke you, Potter?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“None of us sleep well after the war, you know.” His voice was soft. “Not all the time. Even occlumency can’t fix that.”

Draco didn’t know how to reply, so he simply nuzzled his nose against Harry’s neck, as if he were in ferret-form.

Harry laughed and then kissed his hair. “I’m cold.”

“Right.”  He pulled away so that he was able to retrieve and rearrange the blankets.

“Better,” Harry murmured, tugging him back into his arms. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“The nightmare? Never.”

Harry grunted. “I have them too sometimes. Could tell you about mine.”

Draco nestled closer. “If you need to, I’ll be happy to listen.”

“But you won’t reciprocate?”

“No.” Draco yawned. He was usually wide awake for hours in the aftermath of this particular nightmare, but the warmth of the blankets, combined with the intense heat that seemed to naturally radiate from Harry, had soothed him enough to leave him feeling drowsy.  

“Might order you to.”

“No. That would be overstepping. You’ve done quite enough of that for one night.”

“You’re right. I’m really sorry about that. Um, I suppose this is a bad time to ask, but—”

“Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll still show you my memories of Dobby. Once you’ve earned back my trust, that is. So don’t pester me about my dreams.”

“But that’s different—”

But Draco didn’t wait to hear how it was different. Instead he went through the lightning-fast ritual of summoning his most playful, curious and, paradoxically, restful self. A bare second later and he was in ferret-form, burrowing under the loose tee-shirt Harry had worn to bed, and settling down on Harry’s chest.

Predictably, Harry laughed and scratched him (through the shirt) behind his ears. “All right, furball. I’ll let it go tonight.”

He pulled the blankets up over both of them. Draco peeked out of Harry’s shirt, breathing in the scent of him, enjoying the weight of the covers and the slow, soothing feel of each breath Harry took.

It was so easy to let the ferret side of his brain take over. He almost never had nightmares as a ferret, and when he did they were more easily dismissed or even forgotten.

He was just drifting off, dooking softly, when a rap at Harry’s window woke the both of them. A persistent, scratchy sort of rapping.

Draco hissed, digging his non-retractable claws into Harry’s skin.

Harry yelped in pain. “Draco! What the fuck—”

It was an owl, obviously. A great-horned owl—and what the hell was that thing doing outside the Americas? Not that it mattered. Those miserable creatures were happy to hunt ferrets when they had the chance.

Draco scrambled off Harry, transforming back to his human self along the way. It wouldn’t dare attack a human wizard.

Harry, meanwhile, had figured out what the fuss was about. “Over-reaction, Malfoy.” He grinned despite the bit of blood seeping through his tee-shirt.

Shit, Draco must have left tiny puncture wounds. “I’m sorry. I—”

“I’m fine. And I’m not going to let anything make a meal out of you. I promise.”

“Right. Shall we see what that thing wants?”

“That thing?” Harry chuckled as he moved toward the window. “You had a beautiful owl yourself, as I recall. An eagle owl, yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s alive and well at Malfoy Manor. I’m still quite fond of him, despite . . . well, you know.”

“I don’t think your own owl will try to devour you.” Harry was opening the window and guiding the horned menace inside. “This beauty belongs to Shacklebolt. Let’s see what’s so important that it couldn’t wait till morning.”

Shacklebolt. Of course. The wards here would only allow an owl from a close friend or high-ranking ministry official. “What does it say?”

But Harry ignored him in favour of stroking the owl. “Sorry, but I don’t have any treats on hand. I’ll make it up to you next time.” He paused to shoot a wicked grin at Draco. “And no, I won’t feed my pet to you.”

“Very funny, Scarhead.”

Harry was still smiling as he unwrapped the note. “No response required, I see. Off you go!”

As the owl launched itself out the window, Draco felt his heartbeat return to a more manageable rate. “Let me get my wand; I’ll take care of your chest.”

“It’s fine; no magic required. We’ll just clean the wounds properly. Then I expect you back in ferret-form; you need your nails trimmed.”

“No need for clippers; I can control the length if I focus—”

“No, you’ll be a good pet and allow me to trim them.”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh, but he didn’t argue. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he rather liked the idea of Harry seeing to him. “Very well. What does the letter say?”

Harry frowned. “Skeeter got her story; it will run in the Prophet tomorrow. She knows that Robards hung you out to dry and that I disobeyed orders to fetch you back.”

“To save my life, you mean.”

“Yeah.” Harry favoured him with a soft smile this time. “I don’t regret it, believe me. Whatever the fallout is. Anyway, it will probably be worse for Robards: the ministry is launching an investigation.”

“Should you be reporting to work?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Shacklebolt wants all of us—you, me, Hermione and Ron—to keep out of sight. So looks like another day, at least, of working from home.”

“Will the ferret-grooming keep till tomorrow, then?”

Harry pulled off his tee-shirt and tossed it on the floor. “Grooming, eh?”

Draco shrugged. “Why stop at my nails? You might as well behave as a proper pet owner.”

“Then you might as well have a proper harness, in case we go out, and a proper muzzle to keep you from nipping.”

“Sounds kinky.”

Harry laughed. “Come on; we could both do with a shower. I’m sure you can show me a few of your kinks in there.”

 

->*<-

 

“Check and mate.” Weasley leaned back, folded his arms over his chest, and smiled with an annoying amount of satisfaction as Draco’s king knelt down and surrendered his sword.

They were in the dining room. Earlier, Draco and Granger had banded together to ensure that their romantic counterparts finally got a start on their paperwork for the Auror Department. By Draco’s reckoning, said counterparts had lasted about three hours before demanding a break. So Harry was now in the sitting room, confessing his tyranny to Granger, whilst Weasley was downstairs clobbering Draco at chess.

Fuck. Draco hated to lose. It was arguably even worse to keep losing to Ronald Weasley—some part of Draco wondered, ironically, what his father would have to say about that. But even Lucius Malfoy couldn’t deny the man’s reputation as a brilliant player.

“Good game.” Weasley looked Draco in the eye. “Even if your mind wasn’t on it.”

“Reckon I would have lost regardless.” Draco glared down at the board.

“Dunno; you’re a decent player. So what’s eating you, Ferret?”

He sounded oddly like Harry, in so far as he seemed to think he had a right to the answer. Draco couldn’t decide if that fact annoyed him or not.

But it didn’t matter; apart from genuinely wanting Weasley’s advice—Circe help him—Draco wanted to remain on his good side. He was Harry’s best friend, he was married to Harry’s other best friend, and he presumably controlled access to the rest of the Weasley clan, which was the closest thing Harry had to a family. If Draco wanted his relationship with Harry to last, it was imperative that the Weasleys . . . well, if not accept him, at least not make Harry’s life miserable because of him.

And asking for advice was an effective way to compliment someone. Harry would accuse him of sucking up if he understood Draco’s thought process, as would Weasley. Neither of them had mastered the skill, hence they denigrated it.

“Come on, Malfoy.” Weasley tapped his fingers on the board. “What is it?”

Draco stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “I’d like your advice.”

Of course Weasley couldn’t accept that gracefully. No, he made a show of clutching at his heart in shock. “You want advice from a blood-traitor? Won’t your father hear about this?”

“Are you done?”  Draco asked.

“Depends. What sort of advice?”

“It has to do with the life debt and . . . boundaries.”

“Oh. Has Harry become a tyrant already?” Weasley didn’t look particularly surprised. “Best speak with Hermione about that, mate.”

“I can’t.” Draco searched for the words he needed. “I rely on Granger to set Harry straight if both Harry and I agree that he’s overstepped. In fact, I hope she’s setting him straight about something right now. But I need advice on where those boundaries are. And since Granger doesn’t respect my life debt to Harry—”

“She can’t be the one setting those boundaries.” Weasley paused to roll his eyes. “Fuck, Malfoy. I dunno how good I’ll be at this.”

“I just want your opinion.”

He shrugged. “All right. Try me.”

“How much of my past do I owe Harry?”

“How much does he get to know, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Depends. Have you committed any crimes he doesn’t already know about?”

“No.” Draco hesitated. “Actually . . . possibly? In a quite technical sense, as I can’t see how it matters now, legally speaking.”

Weasley stared at him. “What did you do?”

“I . . . are we speaking confidentially right now?”

“No.” His expression was uncompromising. “Not if it involves a crime. But you haven’t raped or murdered anyone, have you?”

“No! This . . . I don’t think it was a crime, because no money was ever exchanged. But it was certainly untoward. And Harry won’t like it. I don’t think he’ll judge me harshly, mind, but—”

“Enough!” Ron looked up toward the ceiling, as if summoning divine aid. “Just come out with it, Ferret. If I can keep it confidential, I will.”

Draco bit his lip. He had known from the start that he would have to give Weasley something. Besides, it might be prudent to judge his reaction, as Harry’s would likely be similar.

“Transactional sex,” Draco said at last. “I was paid in favours, not coin. It happened during the war, while Voldemort controlled Malfoy Manor.”

Weasley went pale. “You didn’t—not with Voldemort!”

“Of course not!” Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t think he had eyes for anyone, even with my Aunt Bella throwing herself at him. Not even sure he had the proper organs in that magically reconstructed body of his.”

Weasley snorted at that, recovering a bit of his colour.

“No,” Draco continued. “It was a Death Eater higher in Voldemort’s favour than my parents were. He agreed to protect them and me in exchange for—”

“I don’t need details!” Weasley admirably bit back his distaste at the very thought. “And, anyway that’s not a crime. Or, well, not a crime on your part; you were coerced. Where’s this bloke now?”

“He died at the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Weasley nodded. “All right. I, uh, assume you didn’t get any STDs from the bastard?”

“No. I don’t have any.”

“What about . . . I mean, are you traumatised?”

That was harder to answer. And, unfortunately, it was the crux of the whole matter. “Not in the way you’re thinking. Nothing Harry and I do together will set me off.”

“But?”

Draco stared down at the chessboard. The pieces were all stilled at the moment, no longer attempting to lop off each other’s heads. And their injuries from this last game had magically healed.

“Come on, stop stalling. You’ve told me this much.”

That was true; Weasley was a bit of an awkward listener, but a good one nonetheless.

“I, uh, can’t apparate any longer," Draco managed. "And I think there’s a connection between that fact and those transactions. In my head, I mean. In fact, I know there is.”

Weasley didn't say anything. The silence was oddly encouraging.

He forced himself to meet Weasley’s eyes. "Harry wants me to relearn how to apparate."

“Well, yeah. So do I, Ferret, for your own safety. You’re going to have a target on your back for a long time.”

“I’m aware. But it's not so simple. And the reason behind it will upset Harry. I don’t want him haunted by this part of my past. I don’t want it in his head whenever we—”

“All right, all right.” Weasley stared up at the ceiling again. “Merlin, Draco. Nothing’s ever easy with you, is it?”

He felt himself inhale sharply. “Does that mean you think I owe him this? If he asks what a particular nightmare is about, I’m obliged to tell him?”

“No.” Weasley slowly shook his head, as if still working it out for himself. “No, you’re entitled to privacy about this, with a couple of caveats.”

Draco swallowed. “Which are?”

“I don’t think you have to tell Harry about every partner you’ve ever had or anything. Or even about this Death Eater. Like I said, you’re entitled to privacy about your past.”

“But?”

Weasley’s pale skin was turning a violent shade of red. His freckles almost blended with his flush. “But he’s responsible for you, yeah? So he has a right to know that there’s some sort of trauma preventing you from apparating.”

“He’s already figured out that much.”

“Good. So he also has a right to order you to see a therapist or something.”

“I wouldn’t object to that. In fact, I wish we had more of them in the wizarding world.”

“Don’t we all? Half of us probably have some form of—what do muggles call it? PTSD or something. But there’s no professional we can talk to about the trauma of surviving a wizarding war.”

Draco fell silent for a long moment. Weasley had a far-away look now, and small wonder. The war had certainly not been easy on him or his family.

“I’m so sorry.” The words were tumbling out of Draco’s mouth before he could stop them. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but please believe that I’m sorry for the loss of your brother Fred. And sorry for the . . . for what happened to your brother Bill. Sorry for my part in it. Sorry that you were almost poisoned because of my stupidity.”

Weasley held out a hand to stop him from saying anything more. “I already said we’re okay, as long as you don’t disappoint Harry. Or Hermione.”

“I know.” His own face must be as red as Weasley’s by now. “And I won’t.”

“It’s not terrible, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“What you did with this Death Eater, I mean.” Weasley shrugged. “You were only protecting your family. Harry would understand that.”

“I know. I just don’t want him to obsess about it.”

“Which he might do, for a while. But only for a while.” Weasley favoured him with a grim smile. “He told me once, back when you were awaiting trial in Azkaban, that, in a way, he admired you for everything you were willing to do for the sake of your family.”

Draco blinked. “He said that?”

“Yeah. So don’t keep this from him just to protect him. You don't have to tell him, but if you want to, he’ll be okay.”


	24. Chapter 24

Harry watched as Draco followed Ron out of the room; they were off for a chess match downstairs. Two, probably, if they didn’t spend an hour reviewing the first one. They were becoming more and more serious about playing: Harry had caught them notating their last game.

“Why do they suddenly need privacy for their game?” Hermione asked, glancing down at Harry from the small, two-person couch. No, chesterfield; that was the proper name, according to Draco.

Anyway, it was a good question; usually Ron and Draco played on the floor of the sitting room, each of them sprawled by the fireplace.

Harry, who was sitting cross-legged in that same spot, opted for the truth. “Draco wants to ask Ron for advice about his life debt.”

“What does—”

“Dunno. He, um, probably wants to know where our boundaries should be, though.”

“And he went to Ron?”

Harry shrugged. “He said he couldn't go to you about this. You don't respect the idea in the first place.”

“I’m not insulted. I'm just surprised that Draco . . . well, I'm glad he has a higher opinion of Ron now.”

“He must always have done; he's said before that he was jealous of the sort of friends I made.”

“He hid it well, then.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah. And he always knew what buttons to press. Still does—you should hear him go on about Hagrid. He still doesn't think he should be teaching.”

Hermione seemed to chew on her words before speaking them. “Hagrid's much better now that McGonagall requires all Hogwarts professors to submit their lesson plans.”

“Does she? That's a bit Umbridge of her, isn't it?”

“No. I think she's trying to find the correct balance. Umbridge was one extreme, but Dumbledore was, er, perhaps too hands off.”

She had a point, but Harry was loathe to admit it. “Maybe. Draco doesn't think highly of Dumbledore—not as a headmaster.”

He was testing the waters here. Hermione had never said what she thought of the ruthless way their old headmaster had used school children. And not just Harry.

But Hermione didn't commit herself. “Are you angry with Draco because of that?”

Harry sighed. “No. He's not wrong. And he knows he's not really in a position to criticise the man. I'm more upset by the things he's said about Hagrid.”

“Draco did try with him. Even if that was only for your sake.”

“He did. He also still refers to him as an oaf. Or he would do, if I hadn't made him stop.”

Hermione looked alarmed. “Harry, you didn't—you wouldn't actually hurt Draco, would you?”

“Really, Hermione?” He rolled his eyes. “You think I'd beat my boyfriend? Or hex him?”

She refused to back down. “You two do have a history.”

“Yeah. Which we both learned from.” He paused to shake his head. “I don't solve problems between us with fists or wands anymore.”

“All right,” she said slowly. “Did Draco just meekly agree not to call Hagrid names?”

“Well, um, I might have suggested they spend more time together. Draco could help Hagrid with some chores after all, seeing as how he'd enjoy the manual labour . . . .”

Hermione stared at him, and then, despite her mouth contorting as she tried to keep that disapproving look on her face, broke into a laugh. “I suppose that shut him up.”

“It did.” Harry looked her straight in the eyes. “I'll never hurt him, Hermione. I can't believe you think—”

“Harry, he does know how to press buttons, remember? Yours especially.”

“True, but I can keep him in line without hurting him. I promise. And so far I'm the one who's been injured; he can give a nasty bite as a ferret.”

Her eyes widened. “Has he?”

“Yes, once. He had a right to be angry, mind, but not to make me bleed.” He shook his head ruefully. “I'm going to have to keep his ferret form muzzled around anyone else he might be upset with.”

She didn't argue that, turning back to the original subject instead. “Why is he asking Ron’s advice about boundaries?”

“I, er, might have overstepped my authority. In fact, Draco might have commanded me to confess that to you.”

She leaned back against the couch with an odd look of triumph. “I knew this would happen. I knew you wouldn’t respect his fundamental autonomy—”

“Would you let me make my confession before you burst into I-told-you-so?

Hermione seemed to seriously consider that question, as if Harry’s faults were so obvious that she couldn’t be expected to listen to the specific circumstance. But, after a moment, she nodded and sat up straight, giving Harry an expectant look.

Harry had prepared for this moment. Draco had likely imagined—with considerable pleasure—Hermione delivering a blistering lecture. Possibly with a hex to drive the lesson home. But Harry was too experienced with Hermione to allow that; he knew just how to distract her.

He started their discussion by pointing out that Draco didn’t believe he was capable of casting a patronus, and that he either couldn’t or wouldn’t apparate any longer. Those two facts upset Hermione almost as much as they had upset Harry, and put her in sympathy with him.

“But,” she said, “I’ve never heard of any Death Eater—or former Death Eater—casting a patronus, have you?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “He never wanted to be a Death Eater. Not really.”

“I know, but—” She broke off to chew on her lip. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to teach him to cast one; of course you should. But I wonder if he has a memory of pure happiness to draw upon.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Harry, his parents—”

“Oh, I know what they are.” Harry gave her a grim smile. “But, trust me, they love him. I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think they ever mistreated him.”

“Of course they did!” Hermione seemed impatient now. “Perhaps not physically, but they pressured him to conform to their warped prejudices, didn’t they? And to their ridiculous ideas of what it means to be a pure-blood and a Malfoy. And they bound him to Voldemort! Really, Narcissa should have run away with Draco to the continent or to America before she let him take the Dark Mark.”

“I’m not sure that was possible by that point,” Harry said softly. “Besides—look, he’s happy now. All the pressure is off: Voldemort is dead. Robards has no more power over him. And I mean to keep him and his family safe.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That must keep him highly motivated to please you.”

“What the—Hermione, you know it’s not like that.” Harry forced himself not to raise his voice. “You know I’d keep all the Malfoys safe even if he broke up with me. Even if he wanted to cancel this life debt.”

Her face reddened. For a moment, at least, she looked honestly chagrined. “You’re right; you have made that clear. I’m not sure that Draco fully believes it, but—Harry, he is happy with you. That’s obvious. Or at least as happy as he knows how to be.”

He wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but stopped himself. She was right; Draco was more content than blissfully happy. But who was blissfully happy after the war? They all had baggage. They all had trauma.

“It can’t be impossible for Draco to cast a patronus.” Harry pulled his knees in toward his chest. “Umbridge has one, and she’s a much more miserable human being than he is.”

“That’s true,” Hermione admitted. “Although she never took the dark mark. Still, we don’t know for certain that the mark prevents one—but be patient, Harry. It probably won’t come easy to him.”

“I am actually a patient teacher.”

She didn’t dispute that. “What does this have to do with you overstepping?”

That question played straight into Harry’s hand; it gave him an opportunity to explain Draco’s use of occlumency in great detail. With any luck, she would be too distracted to bother lecturing him.

Harry couldn’t reveal everything he’d seen in Draco’s mind, but he reckoned that Draco would be all right with him sharing the good memories of New York City and that suburban synagogue.

Hermione was predictably fascinated. She asked Harry to tell her, over and over, how Draco was actually able to curate his memories and protect them with a password.

Harry couldn’t answer that, other than to say that it took a great deal of focus and lots of meditating. “And, anyway,” he added, “don’t you think it’s unhealthy?”

Hermione knit her eyebrows together. “How do you mean?”

“Compartmentalising like that. Draco reviews all his memories and decides which he wants to lock away somewhere in his mind. Even now, when he’s not under any threat.”

“I gather he feels threatened by you,” Hermione said wryly. “And with reason, I imagine. You invaded a memory he had locked away, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I tried to. He shut me down and kicked me out of his head.”

“Good.”

“Hermione, I know I was wrong. I just . . . I got carried away. And that specific memory had something to do with the reason he doesn’t apparate anymore. Hell, that’s probably what he’s asking Ron. Whether he owes me that memory or not.”

“He doesn’t!”

“I know. And Ron will probably tell him that too.” He pushed himself up to his feet and started to pace the room. “Unless Ron refuses to make a judgement without knowing the whole story. In which case Draco might . . . he might actually confide in Ron.”

“But Ron won’t break that confidence, Harry.” Hermione was leaning forward now, a strict and almost-McGonagall-like look in her eyes. “And you won’t ask him too.”

Harry opened his mouth to object, but wisely thought better of it. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I won’t.”

 

->*<-

 

Draco, as it turned out, hated having his nails trimmed—at least in ferret form. A proper salon for humans was an entirely different experience. There would be no ugly chesterfield in a salon, no Weasley to hold him down on it, and no Potter to show just how inept a saviour could be with a pair of clippers.

On the the other hand, there was no petting and soothing afterward in a human salon. No Potter to apologise profusely, scratch behind his ears, and kiss the top of his head. No Weasley to smile down at him, utterly charmed no matter how much he tried to feign indifference.

There would also, however, be no Weasley to scoop him up. Draco yipped at that, squirmed, and then put his paws on Weasley’s face, reminding him that he still had nails, trimmed or not.

“Draco, he’s not going to hurt you.”

There was a warning note in Harry’s voice. Draco would have been offended, but the warning seemed designed for Weasley.

“I’m not,” Weasley agreed, gently scratching Draco’s neck. “We’re mates now.”

That scratching felt surprisingly good. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, sitting on the ugly chesterfield with Harry and Weasley, even if Weasley were the one holding and petting him. Before he could stop himself, Draco nudged his head into Weasley’s hand and started dooking.

Weasley gave him a startled and delighted laugh. “You make a good ferret, Malfoy.”

Since the comment somehow did not sound condescending, Draco kept dooking in response. At the same time, he squirmed again in order to change positions; he wanted to nuzzle into Weasley’s neck to better capture his scent.

It was a surprisingly respectable scent. Different from Harry’s, of course, but complimentary.

Whereas Harry reminded him of the charged atmosphere just before a thunderstorm, Weasley’s scent was more like the calm in the wake of that storm, when the air feels lighter and less tense, and a general sense of relaxation prevails.

How much did human scents change? Surely Ronald Weasley had never had such a relaxed air back at Hogwarts. He’d always been an easy target for ridicule, thanks to his hypersensitivity about . . . well, everything: his family’s poverty, his mediocre skill in Quidditch, and his general sense of inferiority.

Draco had pressed all those buttons with considerable glee. Of course he had; he’d been mad with jealousy. Harry had rejected his offer of friendship only to choose this impoverished ginger instead.

Weasley was different now; he wouldn’t be as vulnerable to Draco’s lines of attack. And, in fairness, Draco wouldn’t bother attacking. Neither of them were fifteen anymore.

And apparently they were mates now. In Weasley’s eyes, at any event. Draco wasn’t sure he could truly be friends with the man, for the same reason he couldn’t truly be friends with Harry: they weren’t equals. He was too conscious of what he owed the Weasel. Not as much as he owed Harry, perhaps, but a great deal regardless.

He owed him even more now. Weasley, he was certain, would keep the secret Draco had confided. More importantly, his reaction to it filled Draco with relief. Weasley hadn’t looked at him with disgust or even shock. And he wasn’t holding Draco at arm’s length. If anything, Weasley was simply more protective of him.

Harry’s voice brought Draco’s mind back to the present. “How’d your chess game go?” he was asking.

Ron—it must be all right to think of him as Ron now—leaned back into the corner of the chesterfield. Draco made a concerted effort to climb into his shirt.

“We managed two games—uh, Harry, what is your boyfriend doing?”

“Burrowing.”

“Into my shirt?”

“Well, yeah. He is a ferret right now.”

Draco, meanwhile, had successfully penetrated the shirt by sacrificing a button up near the collar. He had even turned himself around, temporarily, so he could peek out the top of the garment, facing Harry.

Ron laughed again as he picked up the button, pocketed it, and then scratched Draco behind the ears. “Burrowing. Right. Stupid question. And of course I would choose today to finally wear a proper shirt . . . Anyway, I won the first match, but Draco’s mind wasn’t really on it. He won the second one, though.”

Harry turned his attention to Draco. “You beat Ron?” He sounded impressed.

Draco dooked smugly in response.

He had switched to a different opening for that second game, one he’d been fairly certain would hold up against most of Weasley's defenses. Then he forced Weasley to trade queens a bit later. It was an even exchange in theory, but in practise Ron was still deadlier with the piece than Draco was, so the trade was really to Draco’s advantage.

“He made pretty good use of the London system,” Ron continued.

“Do I know that one?” Harry was smiling at Draco as he spoke. Draco’s ferret eyes couldn’t quite see the smile, but he could hear it and smell it.

“Not sure,” Ron answered. “I don’t use it much, but it has its advantages. It’s flexible, and it allows white to get his dark-square bishop out early. I’m sure Draco will use it against you some time.”

“We haven’t played each other yet.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno.” Harry shrugged. “Haven’t found time, I suppose.”

Draco adjusted himself again as they continued to chat about the game, closing his eyes as he sprawled against Ron's chest. This was good, he decided. He only wished Granger were here too, so he could account for each member of the Golden Trio. The ferret side of his brain liked knowing where all his people were.

But she had gone to the Burrow to see her in-laws about something or other. Hopefully that had nothing to do with him. It shouldn’t have anything to do with him, but Draco couldn't quite shake the feeling that both Weasley and Granger were worried about how the rest of their clan would react to the former Death Eater who was now both Harry's servant and boyfriend.

But he put that thought aside as he closed his eyes. The Weasel and his body heat were surprisingly comfortable. And he was lulled by the talk between him and the Holy Scarhead, which had somehow moved onto Quidditch. Draco was no longer paying much attention to the specifics; in fact, he was dozing.

A commotion woke him up. He almost bolted out of Ron’s shirt, but Ron grabbed hold of the scruff of his neck to keep him in place.

Three or four people—no, just three—were walking upstairs. Granger was leading two others who shared the same loud and boisterous timbre.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. More Weasleys.

Harry and Ron were both standing up, exchanging glances. Ron pulled Draco out of his shirt, but kept a firm grip on him.

Hermione was almost to the top of the stairs now. And from the sound of her, she seemed to be chiding her companions.

Draco knew the voice who answered her: he’d heard the twins bellowing often enough at Hogwarts. And since only one of them had survived the war, this must be George. But which Weasley was behind him?

“Oh, don’t worry, ‘Mione,” George was saying as he pushed past her to lead the way into the sitting room. There was a distinct laugh in his voice as he continued. “We won’t harm Malfoy; any pet of Harry’s is a pet of ours.”

Draco felt an infuriating mixture of anger and guilt and panic rising in his gut—and then he caught a whiff of wolf. So the other Weasley was Bill, and it was really better that Draco be anywhere else in the world but here. He needed to break loose or transform or something . . . .

But Ron held onto the back of his neck, despite all of Draco's squirming and wriggling, and brought him in closer to his chest. “Easy, Ferret,” he whispered. “I think this will all go better if you stay right here and stick with your animagus form.”


	25. Chapter 25

* * *

Bill stared at his youngest brother, who was holding a rather beautiful white-blond ferret in his arms. He seemed to be comforting the animal and holding it firmly in place at the same time.

But Bill shouldn't think of it—of him—as an animal. This was obviously Draco Malfoy, ferret animagus and, according to Ron, not only Harry's servant, but his boyfriend too.

He didn't smell as musky and ferret-like as Bill expected, but that wasn't surprising. As soon as that picture appeared in the Prophet—the one of Harry holding Draco in his ferret-form and smiling down at him—Bill had done some research. A skilled animagus had considerable control over his animal form, so even though Draco-as-ferret seemed to be, er, whole, he could probably tamp down his scent and even keep himself from going into heat.

And Draco must have all of a ferret's survival instincts. Bill could smell the fear on him, and he was fairly certain that he, himself, was the cause of it.

George felt the same. “Bill, back up—I think you're scaring poor Malfoy here. He can probably smell the wolf in you.”

Bill obliged, but snorted at the same time. “Poor Malfoy, is it? He had something to do with the fact that I smell of wolf, remember? And you said you had a few choice hexes in mind for him if he didn’t grovel properly—”

“That was before I saw how cute and fuzzy he is now,” George objected as he advanced toward Ron and the ferret.

Harry stepped in front of Ron. “No hexes, George. No fists either.”

“Don’t worry.” George held up his right hand. “I solemnly swear not to do him any harm.”

That wasn’t enough to satisfy Harry. Or Ron. As for Hermione . . . well, she was still next to Bill, holding her breath.

Bill couldn’t see George’s expression, but it must have been serious, judging by his tone. “He doesn’t need forgiveness from me, you know. He didn’t kill Fred, and he didn’t blast off my ear.” He pointed to the side of his head, where his ear was missing, for emphasis. “It’s Ron and Bill who have a right to a grudge, not me.”

Harry considered him for a long moment, and then nodded. “Are you willing to begin again, then?”

“Why not? It’s been a few years since Malfoy and I have seen each other—you should introduce me properly to your pet.”

“George!” Hermione gave him a reproving glare before crossing the room to stand at Ron's side. Harry let her pass.

“What, Hermione?” George rolled his eyes. “He is Harry's pet. His sex slave too, I gather. But it's all consensual, yeah?”

Harry's lips twitched. “Yeah, but he's not my sex slave in his animagus form, obviously. And we prefer the term 'boyfriend.’”

George seemed disappointed. “Very well, if you must be pedestrian about it.”

“Pretty sure ‘boyfriend’ is a better term to use around mum and dad,” Ron muttered.

Bill bit back a smile at that as George took a step closer to Harry.

“I really won't hurt him,” George promised. “No wands, no fists—not even any practical jokes.”

Harry studied him for a moment and, with a wary sigh, repositioned himself next to Ron, who was still holding the ferret.

“Draco, this is George Weasley,” Harry said. “George, this is Draco Malfoy.”

George reached out and scratched Draco's head. Draco, after a glance at Bill—apparently to assure himself that the wolfish Weasley was keeping his distance—sniffed at George's hand and then rather elegantly butted his head into it.

There was a delighted yip from George—Bill couldn’t come up with a better way to describe that sound—and then somehow Draco was squirming out of Ron's arms and into George's, whose whole face probably lit up.

“Merlin, you're adorable,” George cooed. “Clever too. Tell the truth: you were the genius behind those Potter Stinks badges, weren't you?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Really, George?”

“It was impressive charm work,” Hermione pointed out, in a determined-to-be-fair sort of voice.

Draco, meanwhile, was making chittering and chuffing noises that perfectly conveyed his pride in those badges.

“Right, you just go on Draco.” Harry shook his head at his pet/sex-slave. “Remember you'll be answering to me later.”

The ferret paid him no mind, keeping his attention on George, who returned the favour. And then . . . then it was ludicrously difficult to describe what happened next. It all happened faster than even Bill, with his heightened wolf senses, could keep up with.

One moment, Draco seemed content to be held by George. The next, there was a ferret tearing through the room, with George in fast but clumsy pursuit—George still had all the speed and power of a beater, but that came along with a stereotypical lack of grace. Nonetheless, he managed to get one pinky on Draco’s tail, and then promptly ran in the other direction.

Draco tumbled over himself and set off after George. The game of ‘it’—or ‘tag’ or ‘tig’ or whatever one wished to call it—continued in madcap fashion. Harry was the only one who didn’t waste a minute staring stupidly; he positioned himself so that he could snatch Draco on his next pass near the ugly couch.

George came to a skidding, laughing stop near the wall as Harry grabbed Draco by the scruff of his neck and pulled him up off the floor.

“Enough!” Harry was laughing too now, but was clearly trying to look stern at the same time. “George, you’re going to bash your head against something.”

“Yes, a sitting room really isn’t the place for this.” Hermione pulled out her wand and furrowed her brow. “Those I suppose we could transfigure the hard edges of that table, for a start.”

Draco let out a high-pitched ferret-screech which seemed to imply that transfiguring any of the furniture was not an acceptable solution.

George seemed to find that hilarious. He kept laughing and laughing, sliding down against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, almost hyperventilating.

Bill felt his eyebrows shoot up as he met Ron’s eyes. They both knew exactly what the other was thinking: neither of them had seen George laugh like this since Fred was killed.

Hermione, meanwhile, was looking curiously at Draco. “Do you actually like this furniture?”

“No, he despises it.” Harry sat down on the couch and placed Draco on his lap, but held onto his scruff. “He wants to be the one to redecorate, though.”

George, who had recovered somewhat, grinned up at them. “Stop. I refuse to let this conversation digress into interior decorating tips.”

Ron snorted. “You couldn’t stop talking about interior decorating when you and Angelina moved into the new flat—”

“There are more important things to discuss now, little brother. Harry, let Malfoy go. We’ll behave, I promise.”

Harry looked down at Draco, who chuffed at him in a pleading sort of way.

“What now?” Harry stroked him. “You want to go suck up to George again?”

Draco bit his finger.

Harry wasn’t impressed, although he didn’t seem to be in any pain. “No nipping. And you are a suck up.”

“He is,” George agreed. “But it’s working. Let him come over.”

Harry released him. Draco scrambled off his lap and ran to George, though he took a strangely circuitous route that led underneath some of the furniture. Bill understood; Draco was giving him and his wolfish scent as wide a berth as possible.

George picked him up and then set him down on his lap. “You’d make a great therapy pet, Malfoy. Why don’t you leave Harry for me?”

Harry let out a strangled noise.

Hermione merely rolled her eyes. “I think you ought to run that by Angelina first.”

“Oh, she’d love a pretty boy for our third.”

Ron nearly choked. “Your third?”

“Yeah.” George was stroking Draco’s head now. “And I’ll say this much for Malfoy: he is ridiculously pretty.”

Draco chose that moment to transform. It took only a second; suddenly George had a lapful of a very human Malfoy.

“Is that what you were thinking while you and Harry beat the crap out of me?” Draco demanded. “That I’m so pretty?”

George turned scarlet, right to the tip of his remaining ear, but he laughed again as he shoved Draco off of him. “No, but I imagine Harry was thinking exactly that. He just might not have realised it at the time.”

“I was, yeah,” Harry admitted.

“Obviously.” Draco climbed to his feet and then offered George a hand. “I’ll stick with the saviour, thanks. You clearly want a pet, not a third.”

“Sadly true.” George accepted his hand and let Draco pull him up. “Teasing aside, I’m depressingly hetero and conventional.”

Draco made a dismissive noise.

George grinned. “I’m also a bit sorry, you know, for that beating Harry and I gave you. Not that you didn’t deserve it.”

Bill remembered hearing about this: the Slytherins had a lost a match against Gryffindor, but Draco made up for that by cruel remarks about the Weasley family and their mum. Harry and George were both stupid enough to take the bait. Fred too, if memory served.

Draco was staring at George now, hesitating. “I’m sorry too. For what I said about your family that day, and especially your mother—I didn’t mean any of that. I just . . . .”

“Wanted Harry and me to lose our tempers so that we’d be banned from Quidditch?”

“Well, yeah. I don’t know that I thought it out that far, but . . . .”

“But you weren’t upset with the results,” Harry put in. “Not at the time.”

Draco turned his head toward him and nodded. “No. You and your muggle brawling—I still relish the moment when I found out you were all banned.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, yeah. That was one of your more complete victories.”

“One of the few,” Draco agreed as he turned back to George. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for siding with Umbridge and with . . . with the wrong side during the war.”

Bill decided it was time to speak up. “You didn’t have much choice about that, did you?”

Draco froze. Hell, everyone in the room seemed to. At length, however, he found enough courage to turn and face Bill. But he was trembling. George had to put a steadying hand on his arm.

It was a bizarre situation, really. Bill's scars always drew looks from strangers, and some knew that a werewolf had caused them, but people weren't generally terrified of him.

“Relax, Malfoy.” Bill tried for a smile to set him at ease. “I’m not looking to turn you into ferret stew.”

Draco stared for another moment and then snorted. “I wouldn't blame you if you were. Look, I'm sorry for what Fenrir did to you. I didn't mean to let him into Hogwarts, but you, er . . . you have a right to hold me responsible—”

“But that's where it's complicated, isn't it? I know you were acting under duress. And you weren't even of age at the time.”

Bill paused. He could feel Harry's eyes boring into him. And he could still smell Draco's fear.

“Come here,” Bill said at last. “I'm not angry with you. As far as I'm concerned you made up for your time as a Death Eater by serving the aurors afterward.” He paused again. “But I do have a few questions.”

Draco swallowed, remaining right where he was. “About Fenrir?”

Bill stared at him for a moment and then let out a mirthless laugh. “No. I'm not obsessed with his memory. He didn't turn me, remember. Just gave me some wolfish traits. And I don't blame you for what happened—not entirely.”

That didn't seem to comfort him. “So . . . what do you want to ask, then?”

He still hadn't moved any closer. Bill was starting to wonder what it would take to convince the boy—and he seemed very much like a mere boy at the moment—to sit down with him.

“Draco, I'm a curse-breaker,” he explained. “But I deal with plenty of magical items that are damaged as well as, or instead of, cursed. Vanishing closets are amongst the trickiest things to deal with, so I want to know exactly how you fixed that one at Hogwarts.”

He looked astonished. Still terrified, but astonished too. But he nodded and, after a reassuring look from Harry, crossed the room.

“All right.” Draco selected a chair—one that was near Bill but not too near—and, after lifting the legs of his trousers, sat down stiffly. “Where do you want me to start?”

 

->*<-

 

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Hermione was sitting next to him on the couch, whispering. “I shouldn’t have brought Bill and George over without your permission, but there was no talking them out of it—”

But Harry shook his head to stop her. “No, it’s fine. It worked out really well, actually.”

He nodded toward Draco, who was on the other side of a room, leaning forward in his chair as he explained something about muggle finances to George, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Ron and Bill were part of that group too, and all four men seemed engrossed in the conversation.

Hermione considered the lot of them. “Yes, I suppose it did. They’ve been talking for hours, haven’t they?” She hesitated, frowning. “Harry, have you seen any of Draco’s friends? From back at Hogwarts, I mean, not his new ones from New York.”

“No.” He shrugged. “He hasn’t mentioned them, and I haven’t brought them up.”

“Do you think you should?”

“No.” Harry could feel a scowl creep onto his face. “I think they cut ties with him, after his arrest. None of them tried to secure a visitor’s pass to Azkaban, even though we were allowing them at that point, and none of them turned up at his trial to support him. So I hope he wants nothing to do with them.”

“But if he does?”

Harry felt himself tense. “Dunno. I suppose I’ll be civil to them if they’re civil to us.”

“And how are you getting on with Lucius and Narcissa?”

Fuck. He’d been dreading that question. “I still despise them, especially Lucius. But . . . they’re his parents, Hermione. I have to be civil to them. And I have to spend time with them.”

She bit her lip. “They’ll use you if you allow them to. You’ll be a boost to their reputations.”

“Oh, they’re already trying. They want me to join them—along with Shira and Jamie—at a wizarding restaurant for Draco’s birthday. He’s turning twenty-one on the fifth.”

“What did you say?”

“I haven’t said anything yet, but I think I’ll have to go.” He shifted to look her in the eye. “That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what happened to you at Malfoy Manor.”

Her face turned a bit red as she looked away. “They didn’t try to stop Bellatrix, you know.”

“Hermione, do you want me to say no?”

Harry knew he had to give her this much. It can’t have been easy for her to watch him help Lucius and Narcissa as much as he had done. A small part of Hermione had probably hoped that Lucius would rot in Azkaban—and he might have done had Harry objected to the public deal he cut with the Wizengamot.

“I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Draco and I can celebrate privately, you know. Or just with you lot. And Shira and Jamie. I don’t have to go.”

Hermione shut her eyes. “No, but you should. Don’t set a bad precedent. You don’t want to make Draco feel as if he has to choose between you and them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She opened her eyes. “But I never want to see them, Harry.”

He reached out and squeezed her hand. “You never have to.”

She smiled, but then both their eyes darted to the window, where a horned owl was clawing at the glass. “Isn’t that one of Shacklebolt’s?”

“Yeah.” Harry grimaced as he stood up, wondering if he could get to the owl before Draco even noticed it—but no such luck. Draco was already walking to his side, eyeing the owl with a combination of dislike and fear.

“It’s two in the morning,” he pointed out, his voice strained. “What does Shacklebolt want with you now?”

“Dunno.” Harry gave him a brief hug that he hoped was comforting. “Suppose we’d better find out.”


	26. Chapter 26

* * *

* * *

"Unbelievable," Ron was saying. "Shacklebolt wants you in New York? Without me?"

Harry swore under his breath as he read through the message once more. "Yeah. It's a consult for the Americans. They only need one of us."

That turned out to be the wrong thing to say. Ron’s lips twisted with a jealousy that might have faded over the years, but had yet to die.

"No." He looked as if he were trying for a smile—and failing spectacularly. "No, they only want you."

Draco snorted. "They only want the Holy Saviour, you mean. They don't know Harry."

That, to Harry's astonishment, was the right thing to say. Ron let out a short but genuine laugh. "Yeah."

The two men shared a look that startled Harry. He hadn’t realised, until now, that this jealousy of him was something they had in common. And he had never imagined them bonding over it.

But as long as they were getting on, Harry wasn’t about to complain. And since the sudden tension seemed to be draining from the room, he felt confident enough to continue.

"Shit timing on the Ministry’s part." He paused to stroke the head of Shacklebolt’s great-horned owl. "I'll be stuck there for a week. Draco, is there any chance you can come with me?”

Draco, who was keeping his distance from the owl, gave him a pointed look. "Shira and Jamie are arriving Sunday morning."

“I know. Can they can delay their flight for a week?"

"That's an awful lot of trouble," Hermione said. "And they've probably made other arrangements as well."

Draco grimaced. "She's right. Don’t worry, Harry. You’ll still meet them. They were planning to stay for at least a fortnight."

Bill, who was leaning forward in his chair, suddenly spoke up. "I don't suppose American guests are a good enough reason to get out of the assignment?"

"Not nearly," Ron said. "When duty calls and all that."

George, who had finally eschewed the floor in favour of a proper chair, shot Draco a mischievous glance. "Harry, you ought to tell Shacklebolt that you can't find a reliable pet sitter."

Draco raised one eyebrow at him. "You find your younger brother and Granger unreliable?"

Ron grinned. “We’re plenty reliable. And yeah, we’ll keep an eye on you, Ferret.”

They were only half teasing, a fact that left Harry relieved and Hermione predictably offended on Draco’s behalf. She folded her arms across her chest, looking as though she’d have quite a bit to say to her husband on the subject later.

But Harry wanted Ron and Hermione to, well, look after Draco. He knew it wasn’t really necessary; Draco was an adult who had taught himself how to reject his parents’ prejudices. Who had built a new life for himself in New York. Who had also survived for three years undercover. He was obviously capable of looking after himself.

But, in the end, he would have died undercover if Harry hadn’t intervened. And there was a target on his back now. And, for all his changes, Draco was still, er, Draco. So if he was willing to answer to Harry’s best friends, so much the better.

Besides, someone ought to be around for Draco’s—fuck. "Draco, I'm going to miss your birthday."

"It's your birthday, Ferret?" Ron shook his head at Harry, as if reprimanding him for being a terrible boyfriend, and then turned back to Draco. "When?"

"Tuesday."

"We'll go to a pub to celebrate, yeah?" Ron said. "You, me, Hermione, your New York friends—that all right, 'Mione?"

"Of course!" She nodded enthusiastically, her upcoming lecture momentarily forgotten.

"I'm in," George piped up. "And Angelina will come." He paused to give Draco a searching look and then bit his lip. "How, er, welcome are you at most wizarding establishments?"

"Let's just go to a muggle place," Bill said. "Fleur is starting to like them."

Harry studied his boyfriend. Spending his birthday at a muggle pub surrounded by Weasleys was possibly not a dream come true for him.

Nonetheless, Draco managed a shaky nod. "Thank you. That sounds . . . lovely."

George laughed. "You're not going to an execution, Malfoy. Don't worry; we’ll see to it that you enjoy yourself."

"I know!" He did that thing with his eyebrows. "I'm just upset that Harry won't be there."

"Good save," Ron murmured.

"I am too," Harry said. "But you can tell your parents that I'll be happy to join them for your birthday dinner at whichever restaurant they choose. It will just be a week later than planned."

Draco stared at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded with more confidence than he felt. "They're going to be my parents-in-law. I want to have a civil relationship with them."

George and Bill exchanged glances at that; Harry caught them out of the corner of his eye. Neither saw fit to comment, though.

Well, they could think whatever they liked. He would marry Draco—even if it could only be unofficially, and even if everyone in the entire wizarding world objected. And he would be civil to Lucius and Narcissa.

Besides, Draco's reaction was more important than George's or Bill's. And he was giving Harry an odd look that somehow combined both longing and disbelief. At least until he tucked that look away and turned his expression neutral.

Hermione, meanwhile, was sinking into the ugly chesterfield with a crease in her brow, as if she were thinking about something else altogether. "This entire consult business is odd,” she said, proving that her mind was back on Shacklebolt’s note. “I suppose our Ministry wants you out of the country whilst the scandal plays out. It looks as though Robards will be forced to resign."

But Harry shook his head. “They’ll have to interview me for the investigation, won’t they?"

"Shacklebolt can do that while you're in America," Draco pointed out. "I've heard he's not afraid of muggle technology. Which airport is he sending you to?"

"Heathrow, obviously."

His boyfriend rolled his eyes with a pained, disbelieving look. "When you arrive, Potter. Which airport when you arrive?"

"Oh." Harry felt his face turn hot with embarrassment as he turned back to the note. "Er, looks like John F. Ken—"

"JFK." Draco scowled. "That's unacceptable. Write back. Tell him you'll need a different flight. One that lands in Newark."

"But it's all arranged. They'll have someone meet me and take me to the hotel—"

Draco tapped his foot, looking as if he'd very much like to cast an Imperious on Harry, so he wouldn't have to bother explaining things. "You'll be staying with Benjamin and Noa. One of them will pick you up at the airport, and Newark is much more convenient than JFK."

"But I haven't even met them! Are you sure they'll—"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'll call in a few minutes; it's earlier there. And Kreacher and I will get you packed." Draco hesitated and then turned to the remaining Weasleys.

"Bill, George, I'm grateful for the opportunity to meet you both properly. Especially after, well, after everything my family and I have done . . . ."

George looked amused. "Never mind all that. We'll see you on Tuesday. And I expect you to come 'round the shop soon and explain why I should accept muggle money."

Draco gave him a tentative smile. "Happy to."

"And, of course, I'll need a weekly appointment with my new therapy ferret."

Draco actually laughed at that. "I wouldn't mind, if it’s all right with Harry. So, ah, we’ll talk?’

George nodded. "Yeah."

Bill stood up and held out his hand. "See you on Tuesday."

"I look forward to it." The words were perfectly polite, and Draco mostly hid his nervousness as he accepted the handshake. Then he turned to Ron and Hermione. “Would you two mind following me upstairs?”

They exchanged looks, but both agreed. A moment later all three had vacated the sitting room.

George knit his brows together. “What’s that about? And who are these two blokes Draco wants you to stay with?”

“Two blokes?” Harry gave him a blank look.

“This Benjamin and Noah.”

“Oh. No, that’s a man and a woman, actually. Married couple related to Shira. I think Noa must be a girl’s name too.”

“Noa is a feminine name in Hebrew,” Bill explained. “Noach”—he pronounced it with a harsh sound at the end—“is masculine.”

Both Harry and George stared at him.

He shrugged. “Curse-breakers need to know a lot about different languages.”

“Right,” George said. “So this is the Baumgarten clan, yeah? The one Draco is so tight with?”

Harry nodded as he reached for a quill. “Yeah. Might be a bit awkward for me, though. Not staying with Benjamin and Noa, I don’t think, but meeting Shira’s parents. They were hoping that Draco would marry her.”

“Despite the fact that he’s gay?” George asked.

“Yeah. And despite the fact that Shira is too.”

Bill grunted. “Welcome to pure-blood traditions.”

Harry finished scribbling an answer to Shacklebolt and watched the owl take it gingerly in it's beak. “Sorry,” he told the animal. “Still no treats. I really will make it up to you.”

The owl gave him a despairing sort of look and then flew out the window.

“So what does Draco want with Ron and Hermione?” George persisted. “What’s he showing them upstairs?”

Harry grinned as he crossed the room toward them. “Suspicious of your part-time therapy ferret?”

“Not at all.” George pretended to be offended. “Just curious.”

“Dunno, actually. We fixed up one floor as a guest room for them, though—that was Kreacher’s idea. It’s almost a proper flat. Draco probably wants to show them.”

“Well, Kreacher has seen their flat,” Bill said in a judicious tone.

“Yeah,” George shivered as he stood up. “Scary place. We’ll get out of your way, then. Good luck in New York. And good luck with the Baumgartens.”

“Yeah. I’ve heard good things about them,” Bill ventured. “Mostly.”

Harry stared at him. “Mostly?”

Bill hesitated and then placed a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “Just remember, Harry. They are friendly with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.”

The two departed with that, leaving Harry to wonder how such decent people—and he was fairly certain the Baumgartens were decent—could maintain such a friendship. Or, for that matter, how he could keep up his own civil facade with Lucius.

 

->*<-

 

“You’ve never been on a plane before, have you?” Draco’s voice was flat; he was clearly not happy to let Harry go.

They were buckled into the back seat of a car provided by the ministry, on their way to Heathrow. Harry had opted for the middle seat so that he could sit next to Draco. A stupid decision, probably, as their relationship wasn’t public yet. But Harry didn’t care. If the driver couldn’t keep his mouth shut, so be it.

“No.” Harry rested his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I’ve never been on a plane or anywhere outside the UK. But how difficult can it be?”

Fortunately, Shacklebolt had accepted the new arrangements: Harry would land in Newark, where Benjamin and Noa would collect him. They would bring him to their home in a New Jersey suburb, which was, apparently, a short train ride from Manhattan.

“I have my ticket and my muggle identification,” Harry continued. “And an expertly packed suitcase.”

That earned him a smile. “I’ve sorted each outfit. Don’t mix and match them!”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.” Draco tapped his fingers against his knee. “You’ll be all right. You’re only consulting.”

“Right.” Harry yawned and placed his hand over those tapping fingers. “This isn’t a dangerous mission, Malfoy.”

“But those will come in the future.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Harry nestled his face against Draco’s neck. “I’ll do my best to come home to you in one piece, you know.” He paused to bestow a kiss on that perfect, ridiculously pale skin. “Always.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He didn’t even react to the nestling. Or to the kiss.

Harry closed his eyes. “How much will it bother you? Being the spouse of an auror, I mean.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Dunno,” he said at last. “But I already hate being the boyfriend of one.”

“Enough to break up with me over it?”

“Hardly.” Draco’s tone made it plain that he had no intention of breaking things off. Ever. “I’ve known about your penchant for hurling yourself into danger and rescuing people since first year.”

“It’s the reason you’re still breathing, you know. The fact that I hurl myself into danger and rescue people.”

“Yes, Potter,” he drawled. “I’m aware.”

“You still want me to quit?”

“Of course. But if it’s your calling . . . well, then, it’s your calling. I won’t interfere with that.”

Harry hesitated. “How do I know if it’s my calling? How do I know I shouldn’t be doing something else?”

Draco shifted, forcing Harry to lift his head and look him in the face. Those grey eyes of his were suddenly intent. “Is there something else you want to do?”

“Dunno. I’ve thought about teaching. I think that’s something I’m good at, judging by my time running Dumbledore’s Army. But . . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“But?” Draco prompted.

“Mostly I think about ways to reform the aurors. I didn’t understand how things worked when I joined. I didn’t know that we use some, er, underhanded methods to make our arrests and keep order.”

Draco snorted. “Harry Potter an innocent? Say it isn’t so.”

Harry treated him to a playful punch on the shoulder. “I was. I’m not anymore. In fact, I wish I were experienced enough to step into Robard’s shoes now. Assuming he is forced to resign.”

Draco bit his lip. “I’m all for you climbing that ladder, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I don’t despise Robards’ methods as much as you do; some of his ruthlessness is necessary. But only some. Overall, your ethics will be preferable. Besides, you would be out of the line of fire.”

“But that’s the part I wouldn’t like—being stuck behind a desk.”

Draco shrugged. “If you really want to reform the aurors, advancement is the way to go about it.”

Harry sighed and put his head back on Draco’s shoulder. “True. What about you—what’s your calling?”

“Serving as a therapy pet, apparently.”

Harry laughed. “You’re good at it. But I’m not sure that should be your career.”

“No? How about serving as the Holy Scarhead’s sex slave?”

“That goes without saying, but I don’t think it counts as a career either.”

“Possibly not.”

Harry fell quiet for a moment. “Would you like to be a house husband? Or, er, homemaker, if that’s the proper term?”

“Would it bother you if I did?”

“Not at all. Though I always pictured you rescuing and restoring magical antiques or something.”

“You’re thinking of that damned vanishing closet again?”

“Yeah. I wish you hadn’t put it to that use, but—well, you heard Bill. Even he’s impressed with your spells and your craftsmanship.”

“Well, I’ve no desire to make a career out of repairing near-hopeless magical items.” He paused and shifted again, pulling Harry a bit closer this time. “I’m not sure I want to be a homemaker, though. It’s a possibility, but there’s something else I’d like to explore first.”

“Which is?”

“Muglfineces.”

“Huh?” Harry lifted his head again. “Draco, you’ll have to speak more slowly.”

“Right.” He blushed. “Er, muggle finances.”

Harry stared at him. “Do you actually want to work at a place like Cantor Fitzgerald?”

“Dunno.” He was still blushing, but there was an eagerness in his voice as he began to explain. “They’re all about the bond market, and I’m not sure that’s what I’d actually enjoy. And you want to stay here, don’t you? They have very few employees in the UK. And I don’t—Harry, I don’t even know all my options. But I’d like to see if it’s possible for me to study at a muggle university. It would mean faking credentials, and I don’t know how to go about getting permission for that, or what rules the Ministry has about it, but—”

“So then . . .you really want this? To study muggle finances?”

“I think so, yes. I’m not sure what I’d do with it, but . . . yes.”

Harry grinned at the way his customary drawl had almost disappeared in the midst of his enthusiasm. Draco was bright red now. He was obviously embarrassed, but obviously sincere as well.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” Harry said with equal sincerity. “We’ll find a way to make it so.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They both quieted after that. But it was a good, contented sort of quiet. At least until they neared their destination.

Draco was the first to break the silence. “Safe flight and all that.” He stared down at Harry’s hand—the one still holding his. "I’m sorry I haven’t gotten you to a proper nail salon yet. You still need a manicure.”

Harry kissed him. “I’ll miss you too. Behave for Ron and Hermione. And don’t bite anyone in your ferret form! I don’t want to hear about anyone else’s hand bleeding.”

He managed a smile. “Don’t worry; you’re the only one who’s earned that treatment thus far.”

"Draco.” He put a warning note in his voice. A mostly playful one, he hoped.

“No biting.” Draco kissed him and quite shamelessly nipped his lip. “I promise.”

Harry laughed and nestled closer to him as Heathrow came into view.


	27. Chapter 27

“Well?”

Harry grinned as he collapsed onto the guest-room bed. He was fairly certain that Draco’s voice—they were speaking over their mobiles—was meant to sound expectant. Perhaps even commanding. But he could hear the nervousness his boyfriend was attempting to hide.

Time to put him out of his misery. “I really like Benjamin and Noa."

There was a slight hesitation before Draco answered. “You’re comfortable with them? They’re not like the Weasleys . . . .”

“Dunno about that. They've both been warm and welcoming, same as the Weasleys always were to me.”

“I know, but they’re much more, er—

“Muggle?” Harry supplied.

“Yes. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but yes.”

“You remember that I was brought up as a muggle, don’t you?”

Draco snorted. “Yes, and you were so very happy with your aunt and uncle.”

“Fair point.” Harry wondered how much Draco knew about his time with his muggle family. A few facts were public knowledge now, thanks to a spat of unauthorised biographies. And Harry had told Draco a bit, though they hadn’t discussed the Dursleys at length yet.

Of course, Draco had been canny enough, back at Hogwarts, to guess that Harry was unhappy with the Dursleys. His arrows had certainly struck home when he mocked Harry for spending Christmas at Hogwarts, correctly assuming that Harry was unwanted by his family.

Funny how Malfoy’s words had burned so much at the time. Now the memory only brought a wry smile to Harry’s face.

“Harry? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry.” He shook himself. “Just thinking back—well, never mind. I like that Benj and Noa are so much in the muggle world. And it makes sense, doesn’t it? He’s a muggle. And from what Noa says, most of her family actually live and work in the muggle world. They’re mostly teachers at muggle schools, aren’t they?”

“Yes, and usually at public ones. Er, that has a different connotation in the States.”

“Yeah, I know. Their public schools really are for the public.”

“Just so. And yes, teaching is sort of the family profession.” Draco’s voice was tinged with affection. “Meanwhile, I presume everything went smoothly at the airport?"

"Yeah. I recognised Benjamin from, er—”

“From digging into my memories?”

“Right. Noa was with him. They brought me to a diner for breakfast—a proper Jersey diner, they assured me.”

“I know the one.” There was a nostalgic smile in Draco’s voice now. “Excellent omelettes.”

“Yes. Mine was perfect. And their home is perfect—I didn’t expect a ramshackle old Victorian. Or, er, whatever the equivalent era is here.”

“It’s not Victorian; I believe it was built in 1900. But yes, ‘ramshackle’ certainly applies.”

“Whatever it is, then. I still like it. It has character.”

Draco laughed, sounding much more relaxed. “If character means ‘in a constant state of disrepair,’ I suppose so. Shira loves that house—says it’s so peculiar that it must, at some point, have been owned by other wizards. But there’s no evidence of that.”

“Oh! I’m going to meet Shira and Jamie after all. Wait, what time is it here?"

"They're behind us, so you gained a few hours. How are you meeting Shira and Jamie? They ought to be leaving for London soon."

Harry bit back another smile. He could almost hear Draco raising his eyebrows.

“Benjamin and I are bringing them to the airport in a bit. We’re picking them up in Hoboken. Which is apparently an adventurous place for a car to go.”

“Only if you wish to park. The girls could simply take a train, however. They’d have to change at Newark Penn, but still—”

“No,” Harry interrupted. “They can't take the train. Or apparate. Too much luggage, even with a variation on the extension charm."

Draco sniffed. “Which they shouldn’t be using to travel muggle-style.”

“Probably not, but I’m sure the airport won’t really check their suitcases.”

“Kreacher and I packed a perfectly adequate suitcase for you with no charms—have you hung up your suits yet?”

Harry cringed at the change of subject. “Er, no. I haven’t unpacked yet, sorry.”

“Of course you haven’t.” Surprisingly, Draco sounded more affectionate than annoyed. “Do so as soon as we hang up, please. You have your auror robes, but they probably won’t be necessary; the American wizarding community doesn’t go in for the old style. Not in Manhattan, at any event. Most of them dress as if they work on Wall Street.”

"I'm not meeting anyone official until tomorrow afternoon. I'm supposed to be recovering from jet lag till then."

"Which means resting, not driving to Hoboken and then back to Newark Airport."

"Benj will be driving, not me. He really does seem decent, Draco. I think I'm going to like the whole family."

Draco gave a sort of non-committal hum. “I knew you'd like him. But he doesn't quite count; he’s not really a Baumgarten.”

"Not a—Draco, is this about him being a muggle?" Harry put a warning note in his voice.

“Of course not! Please stop accusing me of backsliding."

"Just making sure. So why isn't he a Baumgarten, then? He married into them."

"Marrying into a family isn't the same as being born into it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Are you saying that Hermione isn't a Weasley?"

"Not in the same way Ron is."

"But—"

"If you marry me, Harry, would you honestly think of yourself as a Malfoy?"

Fuck. Harry's brain froze. What was he supposed to say to that?

It was a fair point. Especially because Draco belonged to him now, and some twisted, possessive part of Harry believed that he wasn't really a Malfoy anymore.

Except that wasn't true. Of course he was still a Malfoy. And some other part of Harry, which was equally twisted and even more possessive, wanted him, in part, because he was one. Because, as a child, he'd been just as the Malfoys brought him up to be: spoiled and bratty and petty. That made his current submission to Harry all the sweeter.

Saying either of those things out loud was probably a bad idea. Well, not the second part so much; Draco already knew how much Harry enjoyed having his old rival under his thumb. Still, now wasn't the time. And, besides, those sides of him weren't the whole story.

Draco noticed his prolonged silence. "As I expected," he drawled. "You will never think of yourself as a Malfoy. Nor would you consider me a true Potter."

"You're wrong." Harry swallowed. "I mean, there is a part of me that—but it doesn't matter. Everything you just said is wrong."

"Oh?"

"It's not 'if' I marry you, Draco, it's when. We're going to be married, and that will make me part of your family."

"You hate my family."

"Only your father. I don't mind your mother so much."

"And that's your notion of family?"

"I don't have to love them to do the right thing by them, Draco."

"That's true." Draco sighed. "What happens the first time Skeeter refers to you as a member of the Malfoy clan?"

"She won't be wrong. And I hope she calls you a Potter."

Draco let out a shaky laugh. "You're lying through your teeth right now."

"I'm not! If you want, when we marry we can both change our surnames to either Malfoy-Potter or Potter-Malfoy. Will that prove it to you?"

"Either would kill my father."

"No. You changing your surname to Potter might do the trick, though."

"It would do, yes."

Harry tried to stop himself from grinning, but couldn't quite manage it. "Merlin, that would be complete revenge on the man. His only child turned Potter . . . ."

"Fuck." There was a hint of awe in Draco's voice. "You see? You’d have done well as a Slytherin."

"Possibly." Harry thought back to the Sorting Hat.

"I would do, you know. If you asked me."

"You would do what?"

"Change my surname to Potter, in the event of our marriage."

Harry blinked. "You would?"

He could almost hear Draco shrugging. "Why not? I'd be exchanging a name that's hated throughout our little world for one that's adored. The advantage would be all mine."

Merlin, that was tempting. Harry didn't jump to agree, though, for a number of reasons. "But you love your parents. You love your family."

"Women in our society—who presumably, by and large, also love their parents—give up their family names all the time, you know."

"Not all of them," Harry countered. "Hermione hasn't. Neither has Noa. Hell, Noa didn't even do the hyphenated thing."

"Perhaps I want to give up my name. Unless you can't bear the thought of a former Death Eater—"

"Enough, Draco. This decision has nothing to do with your past, as you're well aware. In fact, I think a hyphenated name for both of us would, well—it would be good. Another way of putting the past behind us."

"Of healing the past?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"I suspect Granger would agree. She thinks our relationship might help do that—heal the past. But we still have to make it down the aisle, Potter."

"We will, you prick."

"And I'm not necessarily agreeing to the hyphenated—"

"Shut it, Malfoy."

Draco obligingly shut it.

"We have plenty of time to discuss this," Harry continued. "And I promise to take your feelings into account. But I'm the one who will decide on our surname."

"Will you? What a splendid display of dominance."

Harry laughed at the snark in Draco's tone—and at the satisfied smirk in his voice. "Yes. As long as Hermione doesn't think I'm too tyrannical."

Draco laughed too, but the rest of his response was cut off by some sort of interruption. Ron's voice, from the sound of it.

Harry sat up, straining his ears, but he couldn't quite make out the words. It sounded as if Ron were issuing some sort of order and Draco was resisting it—not by scoffing or refusing to obey, but simply by pleading his case.

Then suddenly Draco's voice was back in Harry's ear. "I'm being ordered to bed, as if I were five years old."

"I don't care if he goes to sleep!" That was Ron in the background. "I just want him to give me the phone and then go upstairs so you and I can have a word in private."

"You specifically ordered me to bed!" Draco said in mock-outrage.

"Well, you ought to get some rest, Ferret—he wouldn't go to sleep, Harry, until he heard from you."

"Ron's right, you know." Harry tried for a bit of sternness. "I can't believe you never went to bed."

"Neither did you. And aren't you supposed to be resting now?"

"How do you know I didn't sleep on the plane?"

"Because it was your first time flying in a muggle aircraft. There is no chance you weren't awake the whole time."

Ron chuckled. "He's right, Harry. You should be asleep too, but let me talk with you first."

Draco sighed dramatically. "I suppose that's my cue. Goodnight, Harry. Call me back tomorrow."

"Of course. I—” he broke off awkwardly, remembering that Draco didn't want him professing his love yet. "Goodnight."

There was a shuffling sort of sound as the phone switched hands. Then Ron's voice came across, strong and clear. "All right, your pet has gone upstairs. Sorry, but I don't want to talk to him about this before I talk with you."

"About what?"

"I wanted to borrow my father's new car—you know the Ford Focus he just magicked up?"

"Right."

"I thought Draco, Hermione and I could use it to pick up Shira and Jamie at Heathrow. Apparation points are tricky there, especially with a squib in tow. And, anyway, if they have a lot of luggage—I mean, Draco says they have really elaborate Goth gowns."

"They do. The Ford Focus should do. And it's an estate car, isn't it? Plenty of extra room even apart from the extension charms."

"Yeah."

"So what's the problem?"

"My dad won't loan it to us."

"Oh. Well, you know, after what happened second year—look, just hire a car, then. Draco will arrange it."

"Can't. My father volunteered to drive Draco to Heathrow himself and pick up the girls with him. Said he'd like a chat with Draco on the way there. Just the two of them."

Harry opened his mouth and then abruptly shut it again.

"I tried to tell him Draco should have extra protection, but the car is first-class as far as that goes, and Draco does have a proper wand again. And my father is competent—"

"I think that's enough protection. But Ron, what are you afraid of? That your father won't like Draco? Or that he won't approve of the life debt? Or that he won't approve of my relationship with him?"

"Harry, mate, I didn't want to tell you this, but it's already all three. Why do you think I haven't brought you two 'round the Burrow yet?"

"Fuck." Harry had suspected as much, but he hadn't wanted to face facts yet.

"Yeah. I mean it's mostly my mum. She blames all the Malfoys for the whole fucking war. And they have had it out for our family. Plus Draco almost killed me with that poison. And he is responsible for Bill's scars."

"I know.” Thank Merlin, or God, or whoever, that Ron and Bill had already forgiven Draco. “But your father—is he willing to give Draco a chance?"

"Maybe? Dunno, Harry."

"Well . . .” Harry paused, furrowing his brow. “Draco is really good at sucking up—"

"Yeah, but he'll do it all wrong with my dad. If he plays up being a good, obedient servant—which, I admit, works brilliantly on you and me—my dad will think he's got, er, what does Hermione call it?"

"Stockholm syndrome. Well, a variation. We didn't kidnap Draco."

"Right. That. And playing up his cleverness might impress Hermione and Bill, but it won't impress my dad. And Draco can't do his pet act either, because my father's not going to drive a literal ferret to Heathrow—"

"Ron, relax. Just tell Draco to talk about muggle things. Draco's comfortable in the muggle world now."

"But what does he know the most about? Muggle finances and politics. Neither of those interest my dad. In fact, he despises both. So do you want me to make some excuse?"

Harry sighed. "No. They have to talk sometime."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"All right, then. Guess I'll warn Draco now."

Harry heard Ron climbing at least one flight of stairs. Then he heard a soft knocking and the creaking of a door.

"Harry," Ron whispered. "He's not in your room."

"He might be burrowed under the covers as a ferret."

"No. There's no lump. No one in the bathroom either—where'd he get off to? I told him to go upstairs."

Harry thought for a moment, and then smothered a grin. "Er, Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"Your new rooms are upstairs too."

There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of Ron climbing more steps. "He better not have woken Hermione."

"I doubt that was his plan. I think—well, you did order him to bed."

The climbing stopped. "Are you saying I'm going to find him curled up in bed with Hermione?"

"Probably."

"He had better be in ferret-form."

"He will be."

"Right." Ron groaned. "All right. I'm hanging up. If the wanker's not there, I'll call you back."

"Wait! You won't have the heart to kick him out, will you?"

But Ron was already gone.


	28. Chapter 28

"Kreacher blames himself." The house elf gulped down more tea and then wiped his mouth with his hand.

Ron sighed and leaned back on the kitchen chair—so far that it balanced precariously on two legs. "Wasn't your fault. And Hermione was going to find out about Toffee sooner or later, you know."

"Toffee answered the FRONT DOOR!" Kreacher all but pounded on the old table. “Toffee has never been trained to buttle!”

Buttle? Was that seriously a word? Ron shook his head. "Well, she said you were sleeping . . . ."

"Kreacher curses his ancient bones!"

"Right." Ron forced himself not to roll his eyes. He never thought he’d hear old Kreacher—who was as tough and hard-bitten as they came—sounding as forlorn as Dobby used to over some imagined failing.

"Kreacher," Ron continued, "we all overslept. And what happened . . . well, it wasn’t a disaster.”

And it wasn’t. It was a problem, perhaps, but not a disaster.

The problem began last night, really. Draco was right where Harry guessed he would be: curled up in bed with Hermione. In his animagus form, of course—but that wasn’t what Ron meant when he’d ordered the spiteful git to bed. But Hermione, despite her reluctance to treat Draco as a pet, had found him irresistible.

Ron had made a half-hearted attempt to toss Draco out on his furry white arse, but . . . all right. He was adorable, and Ron was too tired to chase him around the room. So Draco stayed.

It was, at least, much better than sleeping with Crookshanks on the bed. Draco burrowed and squirmed a bit, but he didn’t drape himself on anyone’s face.

Fortunately Crookshanks was still ensconced in the flat—but Ron knew that if he and Hermione stayed longer than a few days at Grimmauld Place, Hermione would insist on him joining them. And how, exactly, would that work? Would that horror play nice with Draco’s ferret-form?

Ron had put that question out of his head just before nodding off. It ought to have been weird, he thought, falling asleep with the ferret nestled between himself and Hermione. But somehow it wasn't.

By the time he opened his eyes, Hermione and Draco—who was human again—were sitting on the bottom edge of the bed, chatting companionably. Hermione was still in her favourite makeshift pajamas: one of Ron's Chudley Cannons tee-shirts and a pair of yoga leggings. Draco was still dressed as he had been yesterday, though his shirt and trousers were rumpled now, as was his hair.

For some reason Ron found that hilarious. He started laughing so hard he was almost choking.

"Sorry," he said, finally breathing again as both Hermione and Draco demanded an explanation. "It's just that I never thought I'd see Draco Malfoy with bed-head."

Hermione giggled, but Draco's eyes shot instantly toward the mirror as he began frantically combing his hair with his fingers. That left Ron snorting and shaking his head at the same time.

“Stop it, Ferret,” he managed. “You look fine.”

“I look worse than Harry! That ought to be impossible.”

“Do you not have eyes, Draco?” Hermione asked. “Harry’s rather attractive.”

“Of course he is,” Draco agreed. “But his hair, Granger! Sticking up at all ends . . . .”

Draco was still trying to fix his own hair, but Ron decided not to allow that. So he tackled Draco from behind, pulling him back down onto the bed and mussing his hair at the same time.

“Wait!” Draco sputtered. "What . . . get off of me, you—”

But Hermione, who was laughing almost as much as Ron now, put her hand over his mouth. “Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

Draco rolled his eyes and made a muffled noise.

Hermione lifted her hand to reveal that, for all his protests, Draco was grinning. He took hold of Hermione’s hand and, with a mischievous glance at Ron, kissed it tenderly. For which Ron tackled him again, initiating a playful, ad hoc wrestling match. Fortunately Hermione was too amused to bother stopping it.

That’s when Ron heard the knock at the bedroom door. Having no reason to suspect that anyone other than Kreacher was in the house, he had shouted an order to come in.

Ron didn’t realise it at first, because he was facing the opposite direction, but it was not Kreacher who opened the door and crossed the threshold. In fact, Ron only stopped wrestling because Draco had suddenly turned white. (Yes, even whiter than usual.) And then Hermione let out a little gasp, which she quickly turned into a welcoming smile.

“Oh, Arthur,” she said. “We didn’t expect you so early. And who is this you’ve brought?”

Ron gulped as he turned to face his father, who was unaccountably standing next to a house elf he’d never seen before. A house elf who looked exceptionally proud of itself—herself? Yes, herself—as if she had just performed some heroic service.

“Brought?” His dad’s face was a mixture of shock at the scene before him—Merlin, he didn’t think he’d stumbled into a ménage à trois, did he?—and bewilderment at the question. “This, er, young elf answered your door. Harry's door, I mean."

The young elf in question piped right up. “Toffee belongs to Harry Potter now.”

Draco nodded as he pushed himself up and climbed off the bed. “Yes. She’s, ah, from Malfoy Manor.”

Toffee nodded enthusiastically. “Toffee belonged to Master Draco before.”

Hermione favoured Draco with a sidelong glance that promised more questions to come and then turned back to Ron’s Dad.

“Arthur,” she said, “I believe you’ve met Draco Malfoy?”

Ron was off the bed and on his feet now too. He positioned himself next to Draco to—to what exactly? His father wasn’t about to attack Draco. All the same, Ron felt better taking a protective stance.

But he shouldn’t have worried. Whatever the man’s misgivings, his father was clearly determined to be polite. He even stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “Yes, we’ve met. I understand you’ve spent quite a bit of time in New York?”

“Yes, sir.” Draco took his hand and shook it, his expression respectful and overly deferential. “I stayed with one of the Baumgartens and her girlfriend in Hoboken, right outside the city.”

“Good, good. I look forward to hearing about your experiences there on the way to Heathrow. You learned something of muggle life in the States, I believe?”

“Ah, a bit, sir, yes. You’re driving us to Heathrow?”

Fuck. Ron hadn’t had a chance to talk to Malfoy about that yet. “Oh, I meant to tell you when we woke up. He’s taking you to pick up Shira and Jamie. Er, just you.”

Draco kept up the deferential look—no, better to call it what it was. His suck-up look. How many times had they seen Draco give that look to Snape? But he looked even paler now. Almost as if he were about to pass out.

Ron put an encouraging arm over his shoulder. “My dad just thought—well, seeing as you and Harry . . . .”

“Arthur wanted to take this opportunity to become better acquainted with you,” Hermione put in. “That's all."

"Right," Ron agreed.

Draco swallowed. “That will be lovely.”

"Yeah.” Ron nodded. “Now, er, take Toffee and see to breakfast for everyone, yeah? We’ve a bit of time before you have to leave.”

Ron regretted his tone as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant that to sound so much like a command. For all his new-found subservience, Draco still had some of his Malfoy pride and sense of superiority left.

Not that Ron minded ordering Draco about. And not that he hadn’t done so already. But he shouldn’t have done it in front of his father—especially when there was such bad blood between Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy. Ron almost wouldn’t blame Draco if that perfect sneer of his crossed his face.

But Draco surprised him. He wasn't sneering and he didn't seem upset. He wasn’t wearing that sucking-up expression either. Instead, he was giving Ron a measuring look—as if deciding, once and for all, if Ron were someone worth obeying.

Apparently the answer was yes, because at length Draco nodded. “Very well. Come along, Toffee.”

Draco took Toffee’s hand and nodded at everyone in the room as they left. Toffee, meanwhile, performed a little curtsey on her way out the door.

Since they left the bedroom door open, Ron waited until he heard their footfall start down the stairs before speaking up again. “So, uh, we hadn’t met Toffee yet either.”

His dad nodded. “I offered to wait in the sitting room, but she seemed to think everyone up here was, er, decent.”

“We were, Arthur.” Hermione smiled. “And this floor—well, you can see it’s a suite of rooms now, really. Almost a flat, but without a proper front door. Harry and Draco had them fixed up for us. And I’m sure we have Kreacher and Toffee to thank too.”

His dad blinked. “Are you moving house? I mean, er, are you moving to Grimmauld Place?”

“No,” Ron said. “That is . . . well, we haven’t discussed that.”

“We’re here to keep Draco company whilst Harry’s in New York,” Hermione explained. “The aurors just sent him there as some sort of consultant.”

“Yeah,” Ron put in. “He’ll be there for a week. Draco arranged for him to stay with the Baumgartens.”

His dad raised his eyebrows. “It sounds as though Draco will have quite a bit of company.”

“Oh, well, yeah,” Ron said. “Shira and Jamie will be here too. But, you know, the more the merrier and all that.” Damn it. Why did this conversation seem so stiff and so awkward? Ron had always been able to just talk with his father.

Hermione sensed the awkwardness too. She took a seat on the bed again and gave Ron’s dad a pleading look. “Arthur, I can tell your head is spinning. But you must know that there was nothing untoward happening when you walked in.”

The man finally smiled and seemed to relax, at least a bit. “I do know that. It didn’t look ‘untoward’—but I didn’t realise you two were so attached to Draco Malfoy. And, Ron, I didn’t expect to hear you issuing him orders as if he were a house elf.”

Ron bristled. “Which is it, Dad? Are you upset that we’re on friendly terms with him or upset that we’re ordering him around?”

That raised a protest from Hermione. “I haven’t once ordered him around!”

“Right.” Ron rolled his eyes. “Look, Dad, Draco is Harry’s servant. That was his own choice. And sometimes he chooses to listen to me too, that’s all.”

That was an understatement, probably. Ron was pretty sure now that Draco considered him second-in-command to Harry—although Hermione could probably claim that spot if she tried, knocking Ron into third. Hell, Draco might even obey Hermione over Harry, if the circumstances were right.

Meanwhile, though, Ron rather liked giving Draco orders, even if that made him a bit of a bastard. And that made Harry a bit of a bastard too, didn’t it, considering how much he liked having Draco obey him. But Harry was entitled. Besides, Harry lived up to his part of the bargain: he was determined to protect Draco and his family. And he was determined to build a happy life for himself and Draco. It was a fair deal.

And Draco seemed to enjoy the whole thing anyway. Not in a kinky way, though. Well, maybe in a kinky way too. It wasn’t as if Ron knew what Harry and Draco got up to in bed.

But it wasn’t about that. And it wasn’t just Draco ingratiating himself with the Golden Trio either. No, Draco seemed content to give up control—eager, even—as long as he liked and respected the person he was handing it over to.

“Ron?” Both his father and Hermione were staring at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “Lost in thought. What was that?”

“Never mind.” His dad looked at them both in turn and then sighed. Then he nodded toward an armchair in the corner of the room. “May I?”

“Of course!” Hermione said.

Ron watched as his father sank into the cushions. “Sorry, Dad. Didn’t mean to be inhospitable.”

But his father waved that concern away. “Ron, I’m not sorry to see you two make peace with an old enemy.”

Something about the term 'enemy’ grated on him, even though that was exactly how he had regarded Draco until about a week ago. “We were all just kids.”

“Perhaps. But Draco committed some very adult crimes.”

“But he stood trial,” Hermione said. “And then he was blackmailed into serving as a spy for the aurors. I believe he’s paid his debt to society.”

His father actually fidgeted a bit at that. “I agree. But he’s still the son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black. He was still raised a certain way—”

“But he’s doesn’t agree with his parents!” Hermione interrupted. “He’s not a pure-blood supremacist any longer. And he’s apologised for the things he did and the things he believed as a teenager.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” His father’s voice was gentle now and not particularly judgmental. But it was also careful. “I don’t pretend to know whether Draco’s change of heart is genuine, but I hope it is. Just remember that he might have learned a thing or two from his father. Lucius is quite good at putting on masks for personal gain.”

It was Ron’s turn to sigh. “The three of us—me, Hermione and Harry, I mean—know Draco pretty well. He’s still a prick sometimes, believe me. But I don’t think he has any ulterior motives.”

Hermione smiled. “He does, he’s just owned up to them.”

“Right,” Ron agreed. “He and Harry struck a deal, Dad. Hermione and I were witnesses. Both of them are happy with the terms.”

“You’ve said there’s more than just a deal between them,” his dad pointed out.

Ron shrugged. “Yeah. They’re boyfriends now too. That was probably inevitable—they were obsessed with each other for ages. That’s not what Mum’s upset about, is it?”

His dad seemed to struggle with a response. “I think we were all a bit surprised to discover that Harry is, er . . . .”

“Bisexual,” Hermione supplied.

“Bisexual,” his dad repeated. “That might take getting used to, but . . . well, of course it doesn’t matter. But his choice of boyfriend is problematic.”

“Because Draco was a Death Eater.”

“Yes, Ron.”

“Look, I’m not making excuses for him,” Ron said, “but he didn’t have much choice. Voldemort was threatening him and his parents—”

“I know there were extenuating circumstances.” His father leaned forward in the chair. “I was there at the trials, Ron. I remember Harry’s testimony.”

“So why don’t you and Mum give the ferret a chance? He’s a different person now. All of us are.”

“We are giving him a chance. That’s why I’m driving him to Heathrow.”

Ron knew exactly how to translate that. Mum hadn’t wanted anything to do with Draco, but Dad had insisted on at least talking with him. “And then what? Will he be welcome to come to dinner on Sundays with Harry?”

His father gave him a wan smile. “It’s early days yet, Ron. Give us time.”

“How much time?” Ron knew he was being curt and possibly unreasonable—and why in Merlin’s name was he doing this for Draco Malfoy’s sake?—but he waited for an answer anyway.

“We don’t wish him any ill, Ron.” His father’s eyes were sympathetic, but there was steel behind them. “But he and his family have done immense harm. We’re not ready to welcome him into our home.”

Ron hesitated. “The thing is, Dad, Harry’s not going to go where Draco isn’t welcome. Even if that’s the Burrow.”

There was a flicker of surprise in his Dad’s eyes. And a flicker of hurt. “Well, I hope Harry will be patient. This is a new relationship for him—very new.”

“I don’t think it’s going to burn out,” Hermione said quietly.

“I can only hope not,” said a slightly wry, slightly faltering voice.

Ron tore his eyes away from his father to see Draco standing back at the bedroom door. Fuck, he should have heard the git walking up the creaky stairs of Grimmauld Place. He couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed by his stealth or impressed with it.

Hermione risked a smile. “Come in, Draco.”

He nodded as he stepped inside. “Sorry to intrude. Breakfast is ready—Kreacher and Toffee want me to collect our guests on time."

“No, I’m the one who should be apologising.” Ron’s father stood up. “I didn’t mean to speculate on your, er, relationship with Harry.”

Draco didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Why not? It is new. But I’ll see to it, sir, that Harry doesn’t avoid the Burrow whilst he and I sort ourselves.”

With that, Draco ushered Ron’s father out the door. Hermione followed him, but Ron grabbed Draco’s arm and pulled him further inside.

"We need to talk, Ferret."

 

->*<-

 

Draco stared at the figures retreating downstairs before turning back to Ron. “What?” he demanded in a whisper. “I wasn’t rude to your father.”

“No, but you shouldn’t have been so polite.”

Draco gave him his best what-the-fuck look.

“I know Harry,” Ron persisted. “He’s not going to sit down to dinner at the Burrow when you’re not allowed there.”

“Harry boycotting the Burrow isn’t going to help us!” Draco folded his arms over his chest. “Your parents will blame me for any estrangement.”

Ron opened his mouth, presumably to snap out a response, but then abruptly shut it again. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “But my parents aren’t unreasonable, you know. And it doesn’t matter. This is Harry’s decision, not yours.”

“I’m not entirely without influence over him, Ron.”

“He’s not going to bend on this—you know how stubborn he is. And he’s not wrong, Draco.”

“Yes he is!” God help him, he was surrounded by thick, bull-headed Gryffindors.

“No, he’s not.” Ron was giving him a thoughtful look now that seemed completely out of place. He only took on that particular expression during a game of chess. “And I think Hermione and I will need to join this boycott.”

Draco boggled. “Circe, have you gone mental?”

Ron grinned. “If I have, it’s not your problem. Your only job right now is to survive the ride to Heathrow with my father.”


	29. Chapter 29

Harry’s mobile was ringing. It took a second or two for that information to sink into his sleeping brain, but at length he reached for it without bothering to open his eyes.

“Potter here.” That was his standard greeting for fellow aurors.

“I despise you right now, Potter.”

Ah. This was not a fellow auror. This was an angry boyfriend. An angry boyfriend who was spitting out his surname exactly as he used to do at Hogwarts.

Harry squinted his eyes, tried (unsuccessfully) to bite back a yawn, and spoke with a casual sympathy. “Um, okay. Any particular reason?”

There was a moment of silence. A long moment. “You’re the most convenient person to blame,” Draco said at last.

“Right.” Harry smiled despite the fact that he was still half asleep. “It’s an ungodly hour of the morning here, love. Can this wait?”

“It’s half ten in New Jersey.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked and forced himself to sit up. “Sorry. Feels earlier. Must still be jet lagging.”

"It should feel later. You gained hours, remember? And don't you have a meeting this afternoon? Pull yourself together."

Harry rolled his eyes at the strict tone of his so-called servant. “Yes, sir.”

Draco did not deign to acknowledge the sarcasm. “Good.”

“Just—” Harry cut himself off to yawn again. “Just wish I knew why I’m so tired.”

"From meeting Shira and Jamie, probably."

"Yeah. I don't think I've ever been hugged so much in my life. But I like them, Draco.”

“You do?” Draco sounded almost surprised. “Even in person? They weren’t, uh, too much?”

“Not at all. Unfortunately, we didn't have much time together, because I was only driving them to the airport, but—"

"Wait. You drove?"

“Yeah, Benj let me.” Harry knew he sounded overly pleased with himself, but he didn’t care. It had been cool to drive in America, on the opposite side of the road. “He was there with me. I didn’t fuck up at all, I don’t think. Not even on those narrow streets in Hoboken.”

“But . . .” Draco, for once, seemed at a loss for words. “You’re allowed to drive in the States without a license?”

“I have a UK license.”

“Yes, so I assumed. But the US lets you fly into Newark Airport and start driving immediately?”

“Of course. Look, an American can fly into Heathrow, rent a car, and drive out into London.”

“But that’s terrifying!”

Harry paused to consider that. “Actually, it is, isn’t it? Either way, I mean. But nothing went wrong. I didn’t run anyone over or cause an accident. And I’ll be extra careful driving in Manhattan.”

“Why would you drive in Manhattan? And why is Benjamin letting you drive his car?” Draco’s tone was turning sour now. “He never let me drive it.”

“First answer: I want to try it once. Second answer: I asked him. Did you ever bother to?”

“I didn’t know that was an option! So I used public transportation, as all sane people do.”

“What’s wrong, Malfoy?” Harry couldn’t stop the slow, mischievous grin from spreading across his face. “Afraid to drive on the opposite side of the road? If you know how to drive at all, that is.”

“Please, Potter. If you can manage, I certainly can.”

“Doubt that. I always beat you on a broom, remember? Reckon I’m by far the better driver too—”

“You know what? Fuck off.”

The mobile went dead.

Shit, Draco had actually hung up on him. Harry blinked and stared down at the phone in his hand, wondering if he should ring his boyfriend back. He’d only been teasing. He hadn’t known Draco was so upset.

Harry should have realised, though. If he were a better boyfriend, he would have done. So much was happening at home: Harry’s job taking him all the way to the States, Draco’s private chat with Arthur Weasley, Shira and Jamie arriving, Ron and Hermione staying on at Grimmauld Place . . . which of those had set Draco off?

Draco was perfectly capable of surviving a week without Harry, so that hadn’t set him on edge. And despite all the drama about familial expectations and arranged marriages, he’d been looking forward to seeing Shira and Jamie; he hadn’t been stressing over their arrival. And Draco seemed comfortable with Ron and Hermione, even accepting Ron, to some extent, as an authority figure.

That left his private chat with Arthur. Harry sighed. Ron had probably been correct. There really was no way for that conversation to have gone well.

Well, there was nothing for it. He’d have to ring Draco back and apologise for the teasing. Then he would have to find out what happened and calm his lover down a bit.

Harry would probably be doing a lot of that in the years to come—Draco was a bit high strung. And a bit high maintenance. And completely worth it, so Harry started dialing.

But Draco beat him to it; Harry’s mobile rang again.

“Hey,” Harry said, keeping his voice soft as he answered.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s all right. And I’m sorry for teasing you.”

"You shouldn't be apologising, you know. You should be plotting some appropriate punishment."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "This isn't the sort of thing I'd give you a time out in your ferret cage for, Draco."

"That was not the sort of punishment I meant."

"No? Then what do you have in mind?"

"Really, Harry? You can't think of anything?"

"Look, if you want to be punished, you'll have to tell me exactly what you think is appropriate."

There was a smirk in Draco's voice as he answered. "You could plan to spank me properly when you get home, instead of teasing me with a smack to my arse here and there."

Fuck, that went straight to Harry's groin. But he had to make one thing clear. "Only if you promise to enjoy every smack."

"If I did, it wouldn't be much of a punishment. And, much as I would enjoy it in the bedroom, I'm not talking about something kinky, Harry."

"Do you object to a bit of kink?"

"Of course not. But you're not kinky, remember?"

Harry grinned. "I can be kinky enough to leave my handprint on your arse a few times."

Draco snorted. "We're still not discussing kink. Not at the moment."

"Well, that's the only way it's going to happen."

"That's a bit limiting, isn't it? I'm relying on you, Harry, to . . . to give me some sort of consequence when I do something like hang up on my master in a fit of anger and hurl my mobile across the room."

"You threw your mobile across the room?"

"Yeah."

Harry smiled a little. "It didn't break, did it? Did you have to fix it with magic?"

"No." Draco sounded almost regretful. "It didn't break."

"Were you imagining it smashing into me?"

"What? No!"

"Smashing into someone else, then?" Like Arthur Weasley.

"No!"

He wasn't lying, Harry decided. Which made sense: Draco wasn't inherently a violent person. Well, he had relished breaking Harry's nose that one time, but apart from that.

Draco's chief weapon, really, had always been words. He'd always had a clever, cutting tongue. And a cruel one. In fact, the lyrics of one particularly insulting and ironic song were no doubt his brainchild. 

"Draco?"

"I'm not lying, Harry."

"I know. You wrote _Weasley is our King_ , didn't you? The original lyrics, I mean."

"Yeah." His voice was uncertain, as if he didn't know whether to be proud, repentant, or both.

"What about the music? That was a really catchy tune. Did you write that?"

"No, I'm not that talented. I tweaked an old folk melody that had fallen into obscurity."

"Ah. Everyone was humming that. Even Ron's friends."

"Yeah, but the lot of you reclaimed it in the end. Why have you brought this up?"

"Because, um . . ." Harry felt his face heat up. "The thing is, Draco, we have a violent history, yeah? I beat the crap out of you after that Quidditch match, you broke my nose on the train, I . . . I sliced you to pieces in the bathroom."

There was another long pause. "Why are we reliving this?"

"Because—look, this isn't on you. I think, left to yourself, you'd always choose words over violence."

"Almost always," Draco muttered, probably thinking about the face-stomping incident.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "But because of our history, and because . . . well, I am a bit of a violent person, I can't lay a hand on you to punish you. Not even a, um, punishment that wouldn't really hurt you."

"So . . . you don't intend ever to physically punish me at all, for anything."

"No, I don't." Harry paused for a breath. "I also promised Hermione I wouldn't."

"Granger. Of course." Draco let out a frustrated sigh. "I worship the woman, but she doesn't understand our relationship."

"No, she doesn't. But she's right about this." Harry paused again. "This is final, Draco. And while we're at it, you need to accept when I decide that you don't need any punishment. I don't care that you got angry and threw your phone. If you start breaking things regularly, it might be a different story. But until then—"

"Fuck me, you're so annoyingly perfect."

"Far from it. You know that."

"Yeah, I do. Sometimes." He let out another long sigh. “I’m not really upset about you driving, you know. And you are actually better than me on a broom. Better and faster.”

Harry knew this was not the time to rub that in. “Want to talk about—um, whatever's really upsetting you?"

Draco hesitated. “Tell me about your meeting with Shira and Jamie first—they arrived safely, by the way. Did Shira talk your ear off about potions?”

Right. Settle into a normal conversation first. Perhaps Draco needed time to work up to the real issue.

"She tried to," Harry answered. "But Jamie wouldn't let her. We had a proper conversation instead, about—oh, all sorts of things. The fact that I shouldn't suffer any culture shock here, for instance."

"In the New York area? Probably not. I did, but only because the Baumgartens never met a muggle appliance they didn’t like.”

Harry tried to imagine Draco’s introduction to a muggle-friendly way of life and really, really wished he’d been there. “Bit of a learning curve?”

“You have no idea. I used to sneer at Arthur Weasley—well, not literally; I scarcely ever saw the man—because my father despised his fascination with muggle quackery. Then suddenly I was living with wizards who thought nothing of using muggle technology for everything. And I scarcely knew how to operate a toaster.”

Arthur Weasley. Harry cringed a bit at the mention of Ron’s dad. Yeah, he must be the reason Draco was so upset.

But Harry didn't address that straight away. It was probably better to keep Draco talking about other topics for a bit.

"Are all American wizards like that?" Harry asked instead.

"Dunno." Draco sounded thoughtful. "Not sure if it's a New York thing in particular or an American thing in general."

"Well, as far as I can see, American wizards are ahead of us when it comes to relations with muggles. I mean, of course they keep magic secret, but wizards here seem much more comfortable in the muggle world."

He could almost hear Draco frowning at that. "Yes and no. Remember, in America it was illegal to marry a muggle until fairly recently. There's a reason there are so many pure bloods over there."

Harry furrowed his brow. "Fair point. So, er, how did it go between you and Arthur?"

Shit. He hadn't meant to ask that directly so soon. But Harry had sensed an opening.

“Arthur Weasley hates me.”

That had to be an exaggeration.

Probably.

Hopefully.

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” Harry said cautiously. “I don’t think he hates anyone—not even your father.”

“Oh, don't mistake me. He was all kindness and politeness. Even when I reminded him of my father.”

“Why do you think you reminded him of your father?”

“He told me so.”

“He—” Harry broke off and straightened up. “He wouldn’t have told you that.”

“Why not? It’s true, Harry. I’m very much like him.”

“Draco—”

“I tried, Harry.”

Shit, there was a sliver of real anguish in Draco’s voice. “Tell me what happened, love.”

“Don’t keep calling me that! I swear by all that’s holy, Potter, I’m going to break up with you.”

“Um, why?”

“For revenge against Arthur Weasley.”

Harry blinked. “And how would breaking up with me upset Arthur?”

“It won’t—not until I convince Ron and Granger to take me as their third.” There was a savage satisfaction in his tone as Draco presumably imagined Arthur's reaction to such a, er, unlikely relationship.

“Ah.” Harry didn’t bother hiding the smile in his voice. Draco was adorable when he was ridiculous. “So . . . things are going well with them?”

"Apparently. They did let me share their bed. As a ferret, but still.”

Ron hadn’t kicked him out of their bedroom last night, then. Harry felt weirdly happy about that. It was sort of cute, picturing Draco-in-ferret-form curled up with his two best friends.

“That’s good, Draco. Really good.”

“You’re not jealous?” Now he sounded outraged. Or mock-outraged, at least. "Why aren’t you jealous?”

“You knew I wouldn’t be, or you wouldn’t have stayed with them.”

“That’s true. Fuck it. I probably won’t break up with you—even if they do offer me a chance to be their third.”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

“More likely than with George and his wife.”

Harry considered that. “You might have a point."

“Fuck, Harry, why aren’t you upset?”

“About what? That you want to sleep with Ron and Hermione?”

“I don’t want to sleep with them! Not that Ron isn’t fit, and Granger is—"

"Female," Harry provided.

"Well, yes. I'm not saying there aren't obstacles. But that’s beside the point. They don’t compare to you, although if you get yourself killed in some auror raid—”

“If I die an untimely death I’d want you to become their third.”

“Don’t you dare be reasonable about a thing like that! I don’t want you hurling yourself into danger, not worrying about me just because you think I’ll live happily ever after with your friends. Or with any other decent person. I won't."

“Just to spite me?”

“If you die young I will hurl myself straight into Blaise Zabini’s arms. And we’ll live miserably ever after.”

“You wouldn’t.” He knew Draco wasn’t serious, but Harry could suddenly taste bile in his throat. “Is he even gay? Or bi?"

“Blaise’s chief requirement is that his partner be as beautiful as he is. And, trust me, he won’t miss an opportunity to shag someone who shagged the Holy Saviour of the wizarding world.”

Harry snorted. “He’s prejudiced against blood traitors, remember? I doubt he admires me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He said so. Said he wouldn’t touch Ginny no matter how beautiful she was. Or words to that effect.”

That brought Draco up short. “When did you hear him say that?”

“Do you really need to be reminded?”

“Oh yes.” Draco’s voice was sour now. “Aboard the Hogwarts Express, of course. When you were using your invisibility cloak to spy on me. And Blaise. And Pansy. And—”

“I was only spying on you, you know. The others were just there. And you got your revenge.” Harry found himself rubbing his nose.

“True.”

“Draco?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you—are you in touch with any of them?”

He fell silent again.

“Draco?”

“Goyle, I suppose. We don’t see each other much, but . . . well, yes. We’re still friends.”

“And the others?”

He sighed. “They don’t talk to the likes of me, Harry. Pansy, Blaise—they were clever enough to stay out of the war, weren’t they? Neither took the dark mark, neither actually fought against the right side. Remaining friends with me would have damaged their reputation in the post-war world.”

Harry digested that. “So they don’t want to be seen with you.”

“Of course not. That might have changed now, I suppose, if they think I can provide them with access to you."

"You won't take up with them again, will you?"

"Doubt it. The Baumgartens are a step up, I reckon.”

“They are.” Harry paused. “Er, how is Goyle?”

“Well enough, when last we spoke. That was before I, er, entered your service. I’ll reach out to him again, if you don’t object.”

“No, I don’t object.” Goyle wasn't his favourite person, but at the moment he rated higher in Harry’s esteem than Blaise or Pansey.

“Really?"

"Really. Now tell me what happened with Arthur.”

“I don’t know what happened. That’s half the problem. He insisted on driving me to Heathrow to collect Shira and Jamie—but only me, so we could chat in private along the way. Get to know one another, Granger said. Not that it was her idea. Or, at least, I don’t think it was.”

“From what Ron told me yesterday, I’m pretty sure it was Arthur’s idea. I think he just wants to get the lay of the land, so to speak, so he can smooth things over with Molly—Ron’s mother, I mean.”

Draco snorted. “I know who Molly Weasley is. And trust me, no smoothing over will come of this conversation. Her husband disliked every word that came out of my mouth.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is. I answered all his questions about New York and muggle life there—and I didn’t sound like some blood supremacist, I swear it! I don’t look down on muggle culture anymore.”

“I know. But Ron was afraid—well, he thought you might have different interests than his father. What aspects of the culture did you talk about? Was it all, er, financial?”

“Well, largely. I know a lot about the markets and investing and such. That’s what I was there to study, if you recall. The neo-Death Eaters wanted me for my financial know-how. And what else do I know about? I can hardly recommend a good gay club to Arthur Weasley.”

Harry thought about that. “You know about Goths.”

Draco snorted. “I know about two particular, quite eccentric Victorian Goths who are into BDSM. How well would that go over?”

“Shit, you’re right. Well, um—wait, did Arthur get on with them?"

“Of course he did. They’re genuinely sweet, and they didn’t mention the BDSM thing. And he didn’t notice anything peculiar about their clothes. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? Half of the wizarding world still dress like Victorians . . . .”

“Right. Well, er, what about muggle synagogue life? You know about that. And Arthur would probably find that interesting.”

Harry could almost hear Draco rolling his eyes in response. “I know what one synagogue is like. And that’s not just a muggle thing. He can ask any Jew in the wizarding world about that.”

That was also true, but Draco really ought to have brought it up. His interest in Judaism—well, it showed a different side of him, didn’t it? One that Arthur wouldn’t have expected.

Not that Arthur himself was particularly religious. He wasn't, as far as Harry knew. But he respected people who were, and he found the actual practise of religion intriguing, especially as it concerned muggles.

“Anyway, I finally gave up talking about muggles and tried complimenting that new estate car of his. He obviously put some painstaking magic into it. But that just raised his hackles for some reason. And that’s when he said I reminded him of my father.”

Harry cringed. Ron had been right; Draco probably sounded too much like he was sucking up, just as he used to with Snape.

Wait. Harry shook himself as his brain seemed to freeze.

Snape . . . Snape had been a Death Eater. A sincere one, before Voldemort murdered Harry's mother. He had taken the mark. He had—Harry didn’t even know the extent of his crimes in those early days. He knew that Snape had recited the prophecy about Harry to Voldemort, making Harry and his parents targets. Harry didn’t know what else Snape might have done, but it could have been anything, up to and including murder.

And yet, Snape had been able to cast a patronus.

How had Harry forgotten that? He and Hermione had talked about not knowing of any Death Eater who could cast a patronus, forgetting all about Snape. Probably because they simply didn't think of him as a Death Eater—not after learning the whole truth.

But he had been one. A much more committed Death Eater than Draco had ever been. So if Snape could cast a patronus, there was no reason Draco couldn't.

"Harry? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, sorry." Harry shook himself again. "I just, um, dunno. My brain went off track for a moment." Now was not the time to bring up patronuses. Harry would talk to Hermione later.

"Well, put it back on track, because I do have an idea concerning Arthur and Molly Weasley and how to, er, convince them to tolerate me."

"I want them to do more than tolerate you, Draco."

"Kindly lower your expectations, Potter. Do you want to hear my idea or not?"

"Of course I want to hear it!"

"You won't like it," Draco warned.

Harry sighed yet again, wondering what his former nemesis had in mind. "Go on, Malfoy. Do your worst."


	30. Chapter 30

"You kashered the house?" Shira stared at Draco, her eyes wide in mock horror.

Well, perhaps not mock horror, Hermione thought. Her expression appeared quite genuine.

Draco, however, seemed unimpressed. “Not personally. Kreacher saw to it. A couple of frum wizards went into the kitchen with those muggle blow torches—”

"Oh God!" Shira sank into the armchair by the fireplace, somehow managing a dramatic pose that didn't look staged.

They were gathered in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place. Hermione and Ron had snagged the rather, er, colourful chesterfield. Draco was sitting between them, but on the floor with his back against the chesterfield and his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

He had never adopted such a casual pose before—at least not in their company. Perhaps his American friends were bringing out this side of him.

Meanwhile, Jamie, like Shira, was seated in an armchair. Both women looked at ease despite the fact that they were wearing elaborate, corseted, black dresses—almost as if they were Victorian widows.

Although their dresses were shorter and rather less modest, Hermione thought, than an actual Victorian woman’s would have been. That wasn’t a bad thing, of course. Hermione admired their ensembles, though she couldn’t imagine flying across the Atlantic in them.

Ron's voice brought her back to the present. “All right,” he was saying, with a grin directed at Shira, “I’ll bite. What does kasher mean?”

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “It means I can’t have a BLT here. A bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich, I mean.”

Hermione found herself grinning as well. “We know what a BLT is. Ron, to kasher a house is to make it kosher.” She glanced down at Draco. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Ten points to Gryffindor, Granger.”

Ron’s sigh was almost as forlorn as Shira’s. “So no pork here anymore, is that it?”

Draco smiled up at him. “‘Fraid not. No shellfish either, or filet mignon, and no mixing meat and dairy.”

Hermione stifled a giggle at Ron’s horrified look.

Draco must have caught it too, because he rushed to reassure him. “Kreacher and Toffee are both excellent cooks, even within those constraints. I promise you won’t starve.”

“I might.” Shira glared at Draco.

"Shira.” There was a warning note in Jamie's voice. "I’m pretty sure Draco did this for me.”

“I did, at least in part.”

Shira snorted. "Don't be flattered, Jamie. Mostly he wanted to torture me."

Ron laughed. “That true, Ferret?”

He shrugged. “It was another part of the equation. But I also did it for myself.”

Shira rolled her eyes. “You’re not even Jewish.”

"Shira!"

Hermione judged it a good time to intervene. Jamie looked near to, well, delivering a strict reprimand to her lover, and Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about that.

“Shira does have a point, Draco. Since you’re not Jewish, what inspired you to have the house kashered?”

“It’s not even his house,” Shira muttered.

“Yeah, but I reckon Harry's okay with it." Ron shifted to look down at Draco. “What's this about, though? I know you’d have converted to marry into the Baumgartens. But that’s—well, it's not likely now, is it?”

Draco answered in a bored drawl, but Hermione didn’t miss the blush that crept onto his cheeks. “I’ve grown rather partial to Jewish traditions."

Shira stared at him. "Don't tell me you're thinking of converting anyway?"

He shrugged again. "I might do, yeah. Someday."

Jamie rolled her eyes at her girlfriend. "Why does that bother you? It's his foreskin."

"Wait." Ron was suddenly wide-eyed. "They'd make a grown man get circumcised?"

"I assume so." Jamie crinkled her brow. "It's not usually an issue back home. Most American guys are already circumcised."

"I think they take a pinprick of blood from circumcised converts." Shira bit her lip. "Maybe you can find a Reform rabbi who won't ask for any of that."

Ron nodded with considerable feeling. "Yeah. Look for a rabbi like that, mate."

Draco, meanwhile, was turning pink. "Must we spend so much time discussing my foreskin?"

That was too much for Hermione to resist. "You always did want to be the centre of attention."

"For my pretty face, Granger, not my dick!"

She laughed, along with the rest of the room. But she found herself curious. She knew from Harry that Draco was somewhat familiar with Judaism, but not that he was attached to it. "Draco, have you really, er, found religion?"

"He's agnostic," Shira said with a huff. "Not that it matters, but there are a million other reasons he shouldn't convert to anything."

She barely paused to breathe before launching into a tirade against her native Judaism in particular and all religions in general. But Hermione didn't mind, because an interesting discussion grew out of the diatribe.

She had never taken part in a debate on religion before; the subject almost never came up in wizarding Britain. Nor, to be fair, had it come up much in her parents' muggle home, which was quite secular—except when her disapproving grandmother was present.

"It's no use, Shira," Draco said at one point. "You can't blame everything on religion. I know that first hand."

That stopped the conversation. Draco blushed furiously this time as everyone stared at him.

"There was nothing religious about taking the dark mark," he continued, "And no religious ideology amongst the Death Eaters. As far as I know, most were atheists—if they ever bothered to think about it."

"I disagree," Shira said quietly. There was no sharpness in her voice now, just a pained sympathy for her friend. "That was its own type of religion, centered around the doctrine of pure blood supremacy and an evil bastard who wanted the whole wizarding world to worship him."

“Perhaps,” Hermione acknowledged, “but that sort of twisted idolatry was hardly compatible with any of the world’s religions. Whatever their faults," she rushed to add, forestalling another rant. "And Draco's right: humans don’t need religion to be brutal to one another.”

Jamie gave Ron a curious look. “I’ve been on Draco’s side. Hermione has argued on both. But you’ve managed to keep out of this.”

“I think I agree with my father.” Ron shrugged. “He believes that old saying about religion making good people better and bad people worse.”

Draco snorted. “Thanks ever so. Where does that leave me?”

“Settle down, Ferret.” Ron smiled. “I don’t count you in the bad category. Not anymore. Not ever, really. You were just . . . you know.”

“Just what?”

“Dunno.” Ron looked thoughtful now. “Something like misguided, but I need a stronger word.”

“Wrong-headed?” Jamie volunteered. “Ill-considered?”

Draco looked to her and then Ron and then back again. “I don’t think I like this game of synonyms.”

Hermione risked a smile. “Then I won’t add to them. But Ron is right; we know what real evil is. You were never that—except under duress.”

“Yeah.” Ron reached down and ruffled his hair. “And fortunately you weren’t any good at being evil. Worst assassin ever.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Are we actually joking about this?”

“It’s very dark humor,” Jamie said. “I approve.”

But Shira was frowning. “It’s hard to imagine Uncle Lucius and Aunt Narcissa falling for Voldemort.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. Draco wasn't related to the Baumgartens, as far as she knew, so presumably that 'Uncle' and 'Aunt' were merely honorific, and a mark of the friendship between the two families.

Meanwhile, it was Ron’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Why, Shira? The Malfoys are all about pure-blood supremacy. Except for this one now.”

Draco glanced up at him with a wan smile. “She never saw that side of my parents.”

“No,” Shira agreed. “But my father is rather proud of his pure-blood too—”

“But he wouldn’t have done what my father did,” Draco cut in. “You’re father’s just a snob, not a supremacist.”

She turned to Jamie, who offered her a shrug. Apparently Jamie agreed with Draco's assessment.

As for Draco, he seemed to be brooding now. So much so that even Ron noticed.

"Want to get dinner sorted, Ferret?" he asked.

Ron wasn't thinking with his stomach, Hermione knew. Nor was he trying to order Draco about—he wasn't, at least not at this moment. He was just trying to distract him.

But Draco took the words as an order. "Yes. Kreacher and Toffee are preparing a Mediterranean feast tonight; I know that much. I'll take a peek in the kitchen."

With that he stood up, nodded at everyone, and sauntered downstairs.

Hermione bit her lip, trying to squash a feeling of gratification. A great deal had changed over the past week. Draco clearly respected her husband now and had proven, in small ways, that he was willing to accept Ron's authority while Harry was away.

She believed, at heart, that Draco had always secretly respected and admired Harry. Those emotions had been poorly mixed with jealousy, fear, and resentment, but they had still been visible whenever he tried to put himself at the centre of Harry's attention. (Usually with resounding success.)

Perhaps that explained why Hermione hadn't been shocked to find Harry and Draco tumbling headlong into a relationship.

But, despite Harry's thoughts on the matter, Hermione didn't believe that Draco had ever secretly admired Ron. His contempt for him had always been obvious. So this new-found respect for her husband was all the sweeter.

Some treacherous part of her brain reminded herself that this could all be an act. Perhaps, as Arthur feared, Draco was only pretending to be respectful and subservient. But, again, what would he gain from that? He could have had Harry, and all of Harry's help, without the life debt.

No, this wasn't an act. The satisfaction Draco took in subservience might not be healthy—Hermione found it difficult to remain open-minded on that point—but it certainly seemed genuine.

He had worn a mask all through school, then. Draco had never really been the bully he pretended to be. It was much more likely that he'd been attempting to emulate his father.

She gave herself a mental shake and tried to refocus on the conversation in the room. It had shifted; Jamie was now describing traditional Peruvian food. Which, since it featured plenty of meat and a variety of potatoes, chili, and quinoa, Ron was keen to sample.

But Hermione's mind crept back to Draco. He had seemed so much at ease of late, even when Ron ruffled his hair—as if he really were a pet!—or issued him an order. And that was just with Ron; Draco was even more comfortable with Harry in charge.

She still didn't approve. But since Draco seemed satisfied there wasn't much she could do, apart from making certain that Harry squashed his tyrannical tendencies and Ron remembered that Draco did not actually owe him anything.

In fact, she and Ron should confront Draco with an unpleasant truth. He deserved to know how much more he owed Harry.

 

->*<-

 

Draco draped himself over Ron's shoulders—in ferret form, of course—easily maintaining his elegance as Ron headed upstairs. Ferrets, after all, possessed a natural sleekness and gift for balance.

He hadn't intended to spend another night with Weasley and Granger, as he had no desire to be labeled a cock-blocker. Rather difficult for the happy couple to get on with things whilst a sapient ferret shared their bed—but Ron had insisted.

Granger stayed up a bit later with Shira and Jamie, who were introducing her to the music of Emelie Autumn. Familiar strains of violins and a harpsichord wafted upstairs, sounding eerily appropriate in Grimmauld Place.

By the time Granger crawled into bed, Draco had squirmed his way into a comfortable position with his head resting against Ron's shoulder. Granger seemed surprised to see him.

"Does he not like to sleep alone?" she asked as she stroked his head with one finger.

"Dunno," Ron replied through a yawn. "I invited him, though. Thought he might stay with the girls otherwise and, well, I didn't think Harry would appreciate that."

"Stay with them as a ferret? Why would Harry care?"

"Shira's his ex-fiance. Sort of. It would be weird."

Granger’s voice was amused. "While this, of course, is perfectly normal."

"Do you want me to toss him out?"

"Of course not." She paused to kiss first Draco's head and then Ron's. "He can stay."

Draco adjusted himself as their pillow talk turned to other matters—largely Ministry matters. They knew nearly everyone of importance personally.

The irony of that wasn't lost on Draco: he had been brought up to believe that he would be the one climbing the ladder of power and hobnobbing with other influential people in the Ministry. He had never imagined a world where a muggle-born and a blood-traitor would be the ones to come out on top.

But in this new and radically different world—one his parents had done nothing to prepare him for—his father would no doubt expect him to eavesdrop. If Draco cared to, he could glean all sorts of tidbits about Ministry personnel and events.

And yet he was scarcely paying attention. He only cared enough about politics to vote intelligently and conservatively; he had lost interest in acquiring power for himself or his family.

It had never been a genuine interest anyway. Quidditch had always been more exciting.

So where did that leave him with his father? The man would try to take advantage of Draco's relationship with Harry; he wasn't even hiding his intentions as far as that went. But even if Harry allowed that, Lucius Malfoy could not possibly be proud of the son who was now in service to their former enemy.

Which was fine. Really it was. Draco was disillusioned with the man anyway. So what did he care?

Ron distracted Draco just then by absently stroking his back. Draco forgot about his father as he stretched and twisted to make the most of this massage. He soon found himself dooking with pleasure, which drew a good-natured laugh from Ron.

Eventually Draco refocused on the conversation at hand. Both Granger and Weasley were reasonably sure they would be allowed to return to work on Monday. And Ron was betting that Robards would be gone by then—either sacked or forced to resign over the weekend.

"They won't choose someone as young as Harry to replace him, will they?" Granger asked.

Ron shrugged. "No idea. And I doubt Harry's heard anything in New York."

"Yes, they've done an excellent job of keeping all three of us out of the way this past week."

There was a certain bitterness in her tone. Draco understood why, and suddenly found himself wishing for his father's skill in networking.

Before the Malfoy family's spectacular fall from grace, his father had picked up on every Ministry rumour. Which wasn't surprising, considering his methods: he had fawned over some contacts and blackmailed others.

Hell, in another era, Lucius Malfoy probably would have pulled some strings to help determine the next auror chief.

Did his father have any contacts left at the Ministry? The man was no longer an influencer, but perhaps he'd heard something . . . .

Draco made a chuffing noise. He couldn't imagine the powers-that-be promoting Harry from the field straight to the top, but perhaps an intermediate desk job would open up. Preferably for both Harry and Ron.

Granger sighed, presumably because she worried for Harry and Ron too. Draco twisted himself toward her and nestled against her tee shirt, perilously near her chest.

Very well, directly against her chest. Her sigh turned into a reluctant giggle as Draco decided that female breasts could be quite comfortable.

"Ah, no." Ron grabbed the scruff of his neck and resettled him on his own chest.

"It was perfectly innocent," Granger insisted.

Ron snorted as he smoothed the fur on Draco's back. "Yeah, he's half in his ferret brain. But we need to establish some boundaries."

There was a hitch in Granger's breath. "Speaking of establishing things, we—Ron, we ought to make certain that Draco knows he doesn't owe us . . . there's no life debt. We wouldn't have—"

"Pretty sure he does know that."

"How would he?"

Draco sniffed at Ron and then at Granger, trying to determine the problem. They both smelled off, somehow, but they hadn’t a moment ago. Then suddenly both of them were sitting up, and Ron was chucking his chin.

"All right, Draco," he ordered. "Back to your human self."

After a moment more of sniffing, Draco obliged him. He tumbled away from both of them, still in ferret-form, and emerged as a human sitting cross-legged at the bottom of the bed. A human in quite posh pajamas, if he did say so himself.

"What's wrong?" he managed. He didn't like the odd way they were both acting.

Ron looked at Hermione and then back at him. He seemed like a man steeling himself for some unpleasant task.

"Look," Draco started, "I didn't ask to come up here tonight. If you want me gone—"

"It's not that," Ron said.

Of course it wasn't. Draco had already known that, but better to be sure. He was still working out just how to, well, fit with Weasley and Granger.

"The thing is—" Ron broke off to clear his throat before casting another glance at his wife.

"Please tell me what's going on." Draco's stomach was twisting itself into knots.

"This is about the Fiendfyre." Ron was speaking soft and low now. "Hermione and I—we wouldn't have gone back for you and Goyle. We . . . we would have left you to die, honestly."

"Rescuing you—that was all because of Harry," Granger added. "When he heard you screaming, he couldn't leave you like that. And we . . . we just followed him."

Ron grunted. "I think I cursed him in advance for getting us all killed. Which, you know, didn't happen. So Harry was right: there was enough time to go back for you."

"But none of us knew that," Granger said.

Draco stared at both of them. They actually felt guilty about this.

"I was on the wrong side of that war," he said at last. "I went in there to—well, I didn't actually want to . . . fuck, it doesn't matter now. But you had no reason to go back for us."

Ron grunted. "Yeah, well, Harry didn't see it that way."

"No." Draco felt his lips curving into a soft smile. "Potter—and that hero complex of his—rushed in to save the day, of course."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "So, anyway, you don't owe us any debt. You understand that, yeah?"

Granger coughed just then, as if to remind her husband of something else.

"And, look," Ron continued, blushing a little, "I know what I said before. About me liking you better this way, all obedient. And that's true, as far as it goes, but you don't have to—well, you know."

"You don't have to bow and scrape to us to stay in our good graces," Granger explained kindly, as if Draco hadn't figured out Ron's meaning on his own.

Draco managed a tight smile. "This is an awkward fucking conversation."

"Fuck yeah," Ron said. "But—all right. If you want to, er, just be normal mates, without any of this subservient shit, that can happen."

"I don't want that. But if you do—"

"No. Sorry, but I like seeing a Malfoy bow and scrape."

Draco grinned. "Small wonder. It's not as though any Weasley has ever had a servant before. The novelty of it must be intoxicating."

"Hey!" Ron pretended to be offended, but ruined the effect with a grin of his own.

Granger, however, groaned in frustration. Literally.

"Ronald, we talked about this—"

"No one's forcing him, Mione!"

"He's right, Granger. I am an adult." Draco hesitated. "And I do owe you both."

"That's not true—"

"You came back, in the end, for Goyle and me. Doesn't matter why. And I was a . . . a little shit to both of you for years, wasn't I?"

"But that's not the same as a life debt, Ferret."

"No. But I almost poisoned you—"

"You did poison me," Ron corrected, his voice wry. "I just survived it, thanks to Harry."

Draco huffed. "Yeah, well, that's not the worst of it. I didn't lift a finger when my aunt . . . . when Granger was—"

"Stop." Granger's voice was harsh now, and her face was suddenly bright red. "I'm still not ready to talk about that. But there was nothing you could have done to stop Bellatrix."

Draco swallowed. In his head, he could still hear her screaming as Aunt Bella tortured her. "Sorry, Granger, I didn't mean to bring up—"

"Shut it, Ferret." Ron's voice was firm, but not angry. "Now come here."

He was grabbed by the arm and tugged over, and somehow the three of them ended up in something that resembled a hug. An extremely awkward but well-intentioned hug that was only interrupted by the ring of a mobile.

Draco's mobile. Ron had brought it up in case Harry called. Draco scrambled off the bed—elegantly, of course—and grabbed for it.

But it was not Harry on the line. Draco's eyebrows shot up at the sound of his mother's voice.

"What's wrong?" He knew his mother kept the muggle device only for emergencies.

Her response was straight to the point; she was doing an admirable job of keeping her head. It was his father, she said, and proceeded to fill in the details.

By the time Draco rang off, Hermione was changing in the bathroom and Ron was changing on the other side of the bedroom.

Ron glanced over at him after pulling on a tee shirt. "Your father's ill?"

"Yeah." Draco blinked, allowing his mother's words to sink in. "He collapsed, but he's still breathing. I don't know what's happening. It sounds like heart failure, but—"

"No point in speculating, Ferret. Did your mother contact St. Mungo's?"

"She did, yeah. They said not to risk apparating until they know what’s wrong."

"Right." Ron cursed under his breath as he zipped up his jeans. "You can side along with me to the Manor, then. Once she's dressed, Hermione will wake Shira and Jamie. They can all meet us at St. Mungo's."

Draco nodded, grateful for the assistance—and for the fact that Ron hadn't called him to task for not being able to apparate himself.

"I hope your father's all right." Ron's voice was quiet and serious.

Draco raised his eyebrows.

He shrugged, blushing a little. "Mostly for your sake—but I also want to remind the bastard that Harry owns that obnoxious mansion of his now."

That was, oddly, the exact right thing to say. Draco managed a grateful snort and mentally prepared himself to see his father.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my dear friend Clodia for beta-ing and Brit-picking. All mistakes are mine.


End file.
